Mr Robinson
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: Post DH. Severus Snape survives. But, he's a little crazy, so he heads to Lily's old house and passes out on her doorstep. Fortunately, a kindly Muggle nurse finds him and takes him to the mental institution where she works. Complete, loved writing this.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** This is a frightfully judgemental story, so you may not be able to appreciate it without reading _Chapter 10 Afterward._ This was posted almost nine months after finishing this story, and provides a better context for the content. There's nothing really graphic sex-wise; that's not the issue at all. I just recommend that you read Chapter 10 before anything else. Don't say you were not warned. Thanks so much for reading, and do review if you have time!

_Disclaimer: I'm not kidding when I say that I'm not J.K. _

_Yeah, this is kinda based off the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Mrs. Robinson". Well, more like inspired. It's a little four chapter story that I've had written for a good long while but hadn't typed yet. Have a great read! _

**Ch.**** 1: The Discovery of Mr. Robinson **

As a selfless, compassionate, altruistic personality, Ms. Jennifer Beeton always made sure to treat every person she met with an undiscriminating dollop of sweet kindness and respect. This, in addition to her patient temperament, optimistic outlook on life, and lack of practical realism provided her with the best bedside-manner in England and, thus, she became one of the most sought-after of nurses. She endeared the elderly, who decided she was definitely a 'nice girl' and silently regretted that their own children lacked her enthusiasm for taking care of them. Women saw her as chummy, a good soul upon whom they might impart their burdens, upon whose shoulder their tears were welcome at any time. Men saw her as the comfortable wife or sister they had at home—or, in most cases, they wished they had. The youngest of children smiled before her without a thought; her happiness was contagious to their susceptible, inchoate minds. Awkward teenagers felt a bit overwhelmed with her inordinate brightness, but could not deny the awesome, fluent power of the woman. Never had Ms. Beeton borne an enemy, and simply no one could refute her good will.

The little woman carried her daily dollops of sweetness everywhere she went – from the moment she awoke in her empty bed, down to the sidewalk in her daily promenade to work at the mental institution located a quarter-hour away from her house in Liverpool. Her brightness permeated throughout the hours until she arrived home in the evening, at which point she sat herself before the tube, had a TV supper, and maybe read a bit from a romance novel before nodding off to sleep. Though not a particularly shrewd woman, she marinated in goodness, civility, and a no-nonsense style of business. She offered a lumpy, soft figure for the optimal amount of huggable comfort, and a willing ear.

The day she discovered Mr. Robinson began like any other. May 20th, 1998.

Ms. Beeton sipped her morning tea, took two aspirin for her back pain, and leisurely collected her purse before going out the door. The sun shone muggily even at eight in the A.M., promising a long and hot almost-summer day. She smiled as she saw the lad and lass next door trudging to school, recalcitrant.

_Only a week or two more, duckies, and you'll have the whole holiday before you_, she thought good-naturedly. One of the children saw her, then, and alerted the other; they both waved genially.

_Such nice kids_.

She waved back to them with one of her best smiles.

As she turned the corner from her street, she nearly tripped over a crack, barely escaping a flop upon the pavement.

_Mercy me! _

Fluttering her hand anxiously over her belongings to be sure she lost nothing—she had not—she was about to leave when, all of a sudden, she spotted a bit of black hiding on the dilapidating stairwell just ahead of her. The stairwell had used to belong to the Evans' family, she remembered . . . they had moved out a good many years ago after the mother, named Lucy, died. It was a sad case, she remembered, the lady had taken on badly after the death of her daughter in a car accident and departed from this world not after two years. Mr. Evans was obviously heartbroken, having lost both his youngest daughter and his wife within a very short time span, and the older daughter had taken him to live with her and her husband or somesuch thing. She had not heard of them since, and the house had not sold, either, almost remaining empty as a testament to the tragedy.

_Did someone drop their wallet? I'll bet some teenage hooligans were trying to break in and tag up the place at night, if I'm not mistaken. _

The black scuffled leather was foreign to the surreal bliss of the early morning, she decided vaguely. Really, that little dark blotch just did not _belong_. Besides, no one could really get into the abandoned house very easily—everything was boarded up tightly, since it was a good house. It probably never sold because it looked so _sad. _Or so Ms. Beeton had decided.

Supposing she should stop and pick it up as she passed, to see if there were any identification cards inside, Ms. Beeton advanced, unruffled as ever.

As she bent to get it, almost too late she realized that her short-sightedness had deceived her. It was not a wallet. It was the toe of a man's boot, with a foot inside it.

The man himself was curious, she contemplated, looking the somber being over with great dignity. He definitely did not have a mother, or a good wife, she could tell; he appeared fragile and emaciated, his skin so ashen that he might have blended in to the granite pavement like a chameleon. Perhaps he had just come from a funeral . . . otherwise, who in their right mind would wear so much black with summer on the verge of blossoming?

Already on her knees, she scooched her curvaceous bulk up the steps to get a better look at his face. Leaning in, she was almost startled by the severe lines when it came into focus—his jawbone sharp and piercing, his cheekbones high and supercilious, his nose in a cruel Romanesque arch worthy of Nero. The gray unshaven stubble along his upper lip and chin did nothing to soften his appearance, and rather augmented the whole neglected-by-his-mum manifestation. His hair hung straggly, long, charcoal-colored, and probably the mortal enemy to combs, simply clamored for a great and massive attack from a bottle of shampoo. A serious set of lips, so tightly pressed together that the poor man might have been in horrendous pain, and several barely-healed scratches (amid the many long-standing scars) upon his face completed the picture.

It would be an understatement to say that her heart melted at that moment.

_He needs someone. Oh, Lord almighty! Let me help this man! Please, God, let me be the one to help him! _

Her eyes flitted to look at his closed eyelids again, but immediately became aware of the fact that she had forgotten to brush the morning breath from her mouth. The man's previously relaxed face tensed as the sunlight of a new day attempted to caress him, and, in an instant, a hundred years of anxiety and pain came over him.

"Are you looking for the Evans family, mister?"

The sunlight still overpowering him, the man blinked furiously, then settled for closing his eyes once more. In an instant, he realized that he was practically prostrate before the little woman in a yellow jumper, and made a vigorous effort to stand up, surprised. He succeeded only insofar as being extremely exhausted would get him; he raised five inches up and dropped back again quickly, his hand grabbing his neck.

She caught his head before it dashed against the corner of the concrete step, setting it down gently on top of her plushy pink purse for a pillow.

"That would have hurt," she said, smiling. The man looked puzzled, and his hand remained firmly around his neck. "Do you speak English?" she prompted. _He might be from the Continent, of course . . . _

"I speak English," he replied in dulcet tones that signified that he was indeed a Britisher. He drew his hand away from his neck, then touched it again, feeling the unbroken skin that lay under a torn spot in his collar. He seemed as perplexed as if he had dreamed being bit by a vampire, but found no sore the next day.

"Are you all right?"

Ms. Beeton surveyed the man again, as well as she could without her glasses, and realized sadly that he probably was. Likely this wretched overgrown guttersnipe, dirty and worn, was just kicked out by his wife after coming home drunk, stopping to litter the doorstep of a house eyewitness to tragedy before his lights went out as one last sacrilege. Ms. Beeton was a tolerant soul, but fearfully religious, and she did not abide with drunkards, nor with disrespect to the dead.

"The definition of 'all right' is relative." The luster of curiosity, at this point, disappeared from his eyes, and at once turned a dull, almost opaque hue. Ms. Beeton sniffed as the breeze drifted towards her, over him—she was satisfied that he did not smell of alcohol, but simply of sweat. His stomach growled, too, testifying that he probably was in need of a good meal.

All her faith restored to him, she queried, "What do you mean?"

Never was she more surprised in her life than when he suddenly burst into tears before her!

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Lily's . . . mother . . ." murmured the wretched, ragged man, regaining some of his composure. "I want to see her before I die."

"Darling, ducky, you aren't going to die." Somehow, she had wedged herself halfway beneath him, and now her arms encircled the torso of the very thin but nevertheless dead-heavy man. At first he had been stiff and uncomfortable, as though full of contempt for the touch of Ms. Beeton's gentle plump figure, but now he had lost all sense of forced pride. His head lay on her shoulder, and she rocked him back and forth with all the fortitude of a nanny bearing her infant ward. "Shh, darling ducky, it's all all right. I'd be a fool to promise you anything but. You're not going to die, except maybe slowly by starvation if you don't get some food into you."

"I ought to be dead. A snake only attacked my jugular vein. I'm amazed I even made it here from Hogwarts."

_Hogwarts? I don't suppose that's the name of any town I've heard of. _Since she had been a bus driver in her early twenties, Ms. Beeton could say with some certainty, too, that there was no such place as _Hogwarts _anywhere near Liverpool!

_The poor man's delusional. Oh, poor man. I suppose he knew the poor Evans daughter who died. Which, that would explain why he was here, to some degree. I guess he was in love with her. Was her name Lily? I could have sworn it was Rose, but, then, I never have been any good with names. _

"Did you know the Evans family?" Ms. Beeton voiced her question. _Any friend of the Evans is most certainly a friend of mine! Such nice people, they were . . . _

"Knew her?"

The man laughed amid shedding the hot tears Ms. Beeton felt seeping through her jumper sleeve. "Knew her?" he asked again, almost mockingly. "Good Merlin, bloody hell, I knew her. I murdered her, and her son as well!"

This certainly put a new light on things.

"How did you kill her?" Ms. Beeton was uncertain how to go on, feeling internally conflicted to the utmost. If this man had done such evil as _murder_, should she show him mercy? He did show repentance, of course, which is what God wants, but even from _murderers_? Round and round inside her head, the thoughts spinning like a merry-go-round in peril. Then she remembered: Lily (was that her name?) Evans died in a car accident. Most definitely and inexorably, in a car accident. No one had _murdered _her, to use that ugly word!

She pulled him closer to comfort him. Doubtless, his delusional state was causing him to think so many odd things; there was no reason to suppose this was not another defect of his brain.

"Shush, ducky. You didn't kill anybody. The poor dear Evans girl died in a car accident, I remember very well. It was a terrible affair. I went to her funeral," she added, almost proudly. "My godmother had just died a few years before, and I bought the house on this street with a legacy from her, and then the tragedy happened not five weeks after I moved in."

"Car accident my foot," spat the man, angry. "I killed her."

Ms. Beeton gazed at the shoulder of the piteous man, who had not as of yet made a motion to even get up after his first initial attempt. She was nearly fifty, and still a virgin, she remembered almost bitterly. Although she hated to call the emotion she experienced now 'love', she nevertheless knew there was something about this man that made her never want to let go of him. He was, she decided, almost like a little boy who had lost his mother, and, going to the first lady he saw resembling his mother, would discover that the lady was not his mother, but still trust her anyways. If that made any sense.

Silent sobs began to once again rack his brittle bones, and, if it was possible, Ms. Beeton drew him further into her shoulder. He was raving, she heard, muttering and cursing under his breath between desperate gasps.

"She thinks I can drive . . . no heavens, I can't drive . . . not a god-damned car accident at all . . . I don't look like I could drive . . . I can't drive . . . wasn't a blasted car accident damn it! . . . Oh god! . . . why did Nagini not do her job properly? . . . how am I still even alive . . . god-damned car accident . . . god-damned VOLDEMORT! . . ."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," chastised Ms. Beeton carefully, but forgiving him even before she voiced the words. _It isn't his fault, really. It's his mind. He's ill, very ill. _

"I good as killed her. I killed her! I murdered her!" The man faltered, repeating himself almost unconsciously, his mind undoubtedly reeling in chaos.

She sighed. "You didn't, ducky," Ms. Beeton insisted, hugging the form of the distressed man as he began to tremble and shiver compulsively. _He's not getting any better like this_, she realized unhappily. _He's just too set in his poor mind to allow truth and reason to confront his weary soul. _

"I should have died last night!" the man murmured, his teeth chattering.

_Oh dear. I sense he's got hypothermia. Or is it hyperthermia? Well, the Doctor will know better than I. _

"I nearly died," he repeated, a bit louder.

"How did you almost die? Were you nearly hit by a motor car?"

A dire laugh erupted from his affected bosom. "Snake bite. Voldemort's snake. Not that you know who he is, crazy Muggle."

This brought another round of sobbing, but they were also accompanied by heartrending whimpers of pain. "I killed her, I killed her," the man repeated over and over.

In a matronly response, automatic to her personality, Ms. Beeton coddled him closer, now taking the role of a mother attempting to console her young boy against the mental tremors he faced. _Good lord_, she prayed, _have mercy on this stricken man. _

She paid no attention to his 'crazy Muggle' comment—she knew nothing of what a Muggle was, but, for all she knew, it was a compliment.

"Do you have a name," Ms. Beeton asked, once the man seemed to have cried himself dry for the time.

"None of any importance," he whispered mournfully. "I loathe its very mention."

She cast a glance over him, wishing she could reach her glasses in her purse, which was a half foot beyond where she could reach it comfortably.

"May I call you something, though?"

" . . . Whatever you want." He was so miserable that he did not even flinch with interest at the prospect.

"How about . . . Mr. Robinson?"

"I don't care. Anything is as good as any other."

"Dear, dear Mr. Robinson," Ms. Beeton replied, stroking the poor man's gangling locks and smooth neck. He needed a bath, badly, and his oily hair testified to the fact. "Mr. Robinson, I am going to take you home," she demonstrated kindly, "And then you're going to have a good wash and a hot chicken pie. You are going to sleep in a proper bed, and I will read to you from the book of the Lord."

The man's body was unresponsive in her arms, not moving, but then Ms. Beeton realized that he had again subsided to tears.

"You . . . you oughtn't, you know," he gasped amid the rain of his despair, "I'm a murderer, responsible for the deaths of my only friends. My hands are forever tainted with the blood of my mentor, the woman I was forbidden to love, and her son. I betrayed them all."

His vocal chords could not allow him to pronounce another word. Ms. Beeton drew him away from her just enough so that she could look at his face clearly.

"Dear Mr. Robinson," she began, "Don't you feel that anyone loves you?"

From his outward appearance, she figured his answer would likely be no. Two heavily-lidded black eyes, a German brow, his butcher-knife chopped hair, and the vulture's beak of a nose gave him a somber, ugly appearance, and his black clothes did nothing to enliven his look. She found herself impressed, though, by the tragic pathetic beauty that befell him as his tears pummeled against his sallow skin, contorting the face of the man about Ms. Beeton's own age or older.

"No, madam," the man replied, "No one cares enough about me to even try and salvage my life. Even as I died, two of my world's most gifted did nothing to try and save me." He paused. "Well, one was talented, anyways. The other just lucky. Still, doesn't mean they mightn't have tried."

_Dear dear God! He is living a world inside his own mind! That explains many things! _

"Do you want to leave your world, Mr. Robinson? It does seem as though there's nothing for you, there, anymore." Her direction was careful, imitating the Doctor. She had not dealt with a patient like this before, but she had seen enough cases over the years to know generally what to say.

He digested the idea for a moment, turning it carefully in his brain. Then, in an impulsive reply, he ducked his head and dove into her shoulder, a frightened bird seeking shelter from lightening.

"Yes."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_I stayed up late to write this up. Please review and make it worth my while. If people are interested in seeing more, well, I'll type up more. _


	2. Chapter 2

_For those who are wondering, this story is set after Snape 'dies' in Deathly Hollows. However, for reasons unknown to us all, he survived the bite, coming back to a half-dazed consciousness perhaps an hour after Harry and Hermione left him. Exhausted and affected by what would be the equivalent of shell-shock, he can't believe that he's actually still alive, and thinks that he's just in the PROCESS of dying. With that inevitability in mind, he decides that the last place he wants to see in his life is Lily's house, a place filled with the majority of his happy memories. Of course it's boarded up, so he just passes out on the doorstep. Thank goodness he didn't splinch. _

_In my mind, the reason he survived was because of the same uncontrolled magic with which Harry, for instance, set the snake upon Dudley in book 1, and with which Snape, in his own childhood, unconsciously used to whack Petunia on the head with the tree branch. But you can come up with whatever other reason that suits your fancy. The predominant purpose of this story is not to talk about why he survived, but what he did when he discovered (to his utter dismay) that he was still wholly and unfortunately alive._

**Chapter 2**

Ms. Beeton kept her promise very well, and she subdued Mr. Robinson to an eventual state of calmness. With a careful pace, she brought him home to her flat, where she forced him in front of the tube to watch the news while she prepared him something to eat.

_Perhaps he will think it a trifle odd that I'm serving him dinner when it's not even half past ten! s_he mused to herself.

Never mind the fact that she added a bit of veronal to his juice unsuspected. She wanted the poor dear to simply eat and go to sleep. _Sleeping on a doorstep all night—why, he's lucky not to have taken ill. It's only God's goodness that made it an unusually warm night. _

Her immediate need was to call for help from the Doctor. He would know what to do better than she ever could.

When Mr. Robinson ate the aforementioned chicken pie, generous leftovers from Ms. Beeton's dinner the night prior, he went about it lackadaisically with all the muster of a sloth. His host virtually had to feed him, for although he held his fork, he simply dashed it into his food with distaste, mashing the crust into a paste and creaming the potatoes. It was as though he was, after all, ungrateful to Ms. Beeton, halfway even disliking her.

_Men are often like this when they've had a good cry. This poor dear probably is just as embarrassed as any one of them ever have been in his position. Probably more. _

Soon enough, though, she had tucked him into some of her (long dead) Uncle's things and situated him in her own bedroom. The mauve curtains let only a little light into the chamber, so Ms. Beeton lit her bedside lamp to read to Mr. Robinson.

_Ephesians 2: For the grace of God, which brings salvation, has appeared to all men teaching us that denying unjustice and worldly lusts, we shall live soberly, righteously, and godly in the present age . . ._

Starting at her favorite point, lines eight through nine, Ms. Beeton drolled on until she was certain her patient's drooped eyelids were not again going to raise. Then, switching off the light, she tiptoed into the kitchen to make a very important call.

"Doctor Cromwell?"

"Betty! My dear girl! Where have you been all morning? Did you lose your pocketbook again? I'll have Desmonda look about for it, but I would swear I didn't see it."

He called her Betty—as did most everyone—because her last name, Beeton, lent itself easily to the nickname. Her first name, Jennifer, went generally unused. Ms. Beeton never introduced herself as Betty, but no matter where she went, she ended up addressed as such. It never bothered her like it would many women, but she often wished people would call her Jennifer, if not at least Jenn.

"Oh, no, Doctor, I'm all right, and my pocketbook is right on the table beside me."

"Where are you? Are you lost?"

She smiled at this. _Lost! The poor man really thinks I would get lost!_

"No, I'm at home, Doctor."

"Then are you ill?"

"No, Doctor. It's rather a difficult situation, actually."

"Ah. I see." He waited for an explanation.

"Doctor, this morning—I _did_ intend to get to the hospital this morning—but this morning I ran across something so extraordinary. A man."

There was a calculated silence, then a burst of laughter on the doctor's part. "My dear Betty, I didn't think our sort was so extraordinary as that. I mean, we only have twelve male patients at the moment, but . . ." He broke off, suddenly, and Ms. Beeton looked to see if the connection had broken. The telephone's red light was still on, however, and so she waited. "All joking aside, Betty, what was so interesting about this man? Did he . . . try to do anything to you?"

Ms. Beeton had to pause and think about what he meant for a moment, then she realized and denied vigorously. "No! No, indeed, Doctor, nothing of the sort. I met him lying practically on the street, and I had to take him home."

"Is he stoned? Drunk?"

"Neither, as far as I can tell. Just sad. And he thinks he killed a girl that died years ago—over a decade, actually—in a car accident. When I woke him up, he just cried and cried and wouldn't give me a proper reason for it all. I do believe, though, that he has some sort of separate world in his mind, a world that was supposed to be a haven from reality but it became a second hell to him."

"I believe you got that verbatim from your favorite book on MPD, my dear."

"But it's true!" she protested. "He talks about strange things . . . like moldy warts and a place called Hog's wart and all sorts of gibberish that no—no _normal _person would think."

"Great Scott, Betty, is he violent?"

"Oh, no, no," Ms. Beeton murmured, "He's just . . . well . . delusional, and very depresed."

"More of a danger to himself than anyone else?"

"That's my view, I think."

The good Doctor Cromwell sighed. "I'll come at once, then. What's he like now?"

"He's asleep. I gave him a small tad of veronal, and he knocked out fast."

"Excellent. Keep him on a tight leash. I'll come around now to have a look at him."

"I . . . I don't think he has any family or anything, Doctor. From what halting conversation he has had with me . . ."

"I'm coming, Betty. Don't do anything to make him upset." Ms. Beeton's expression turned very serious, but livened when the man's smile was perceptible in his voice. "That's a silly think for me to ask of you, come to think of it." He laughed again, but reassured her again, "I shall be along within a few minutes."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The Doctor was as good as his word; not a quarter hour had passed before the roar of his little self-built automobile resounded through the window, and seconds later he was in Ms. Beeton's spacious living-room.

"Someday I'm going to move to some obscure little town named Haddocks-On-The-Bay or Mill-Of-St. Severus-of-Avaranche and never have to deal with traffic again," he grumbled lightly, depositing his worn barely-still-white doctor's uniform upon a convenient hat stand and settling on the arm of the faded paisley-trimmed couch. "So where's our new patient located?"

"My bedroom," Ms. Beeton stated matter-of-factly.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "After you said he was lying on the ground all night?"

"I did give him a decent washing-up first, I daresay."

"In your shower?" The Doctor was halfway amused, halfway concerned.

"Where else? It's not as though I've never bathed a male patient before, Doctor. He didn't really protest at it, just closed his eyes very tightly when I washed his hair and wouldn't let the sponge go anywhere near his privates, which is understandable, I daresay. He's too distressed to really care about washing himself—that much is evident—and someone had to do it."

The Doctor shook his head with amazement and crossed his arms over his thick chest. "Well, Betty, I won't say I disapprove, because you only had pure Christian intent of doing good for the poor man, but I would advise you not to take such liberties on your own again. Your next victim might not be so compliant, and you might end up hurt."

She nodded seriously, realizing that her kindness might not have been taken so meaningfully by some other man. But, then, as she remembered the way Mr. Robinson had listened when she read to him . . . the way he docilely let her rub his body vigorously with a towel and blow him with a hairdryer (granted, he did look at the latter with some amount of suspicion, as though he had never seen one) . . . and the way he had cried on her shoulder with the despondence and utter terror of a child . . . she could scarce imagine him trying to hurt her. He was gentle but hardened, just a child who had to grow up too fast, a poor baby bird thrown from his nest too early but who had managed to get about on his own, never minding the pecks and taunting of the larger birds. The idea of him trying to hurt her was ludicrous—as feeble and pathetic as a newborn foal attempting to stand.

Speaking of which, actually, Mr. Robinson then appeared in the doorway, clad in Ms. Beeton's dead uncle's pink pinstriped pyjamas. He was still under the influence of the slight amount of drug the woman had put him under, and he blinked blearily at both the Doctor and Ms. Beeton, holding onto the doorjamb to keep him upright.

"Mr. Robinson! Shame on you, ducky, I thought you had fallen asleep!" exclaimed Ms. Beeton, sweeping herself up off the couch and approaching him warmly. She noticed Dr. Cromwell's skeptical, appraising eye upon the man, and thought very much that examination could wait.

"I do not sleep well in strange places." He left it at that, merely closing his eyes in long blinks. The disturbed man's focus was bleary, but he seemed to be studying the Doctor closely, guardedly.

"Let's get a urine and blood sample," Dr. Cromwell decided abruptly, drawing from his pocket a black leather folio, which Ms. Beeton well knew contained his travel set of syringes and sample containers.

_One of the poor doctor's faults is that he really lacks abilities to treat people like people, instead treating everyone like specimens, _thought Ms. Beeton weakly, but she nevertheless took the black folio and propelled Mr. Robinson to the bathroom.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"I'd say that definitely your Mr. Robinson needs help, Betty," the Doctor pronounced softly, nibbling from the tray of chocolate cookies the nurse had brought out to replenish Mr. Robinson after drawing the small sample of his blood. The patient had already been sent back to bed, and the Doctor and Ms. Beeton now lounged in the comfortable sitting-room. The telly was on, but went disregarded, instead serving as background noise to distort the conversation lest Mr. Robinson still was half-awake. This was the nurse's precaution; Ms. Beeton hated to have a conversation about someone while they were within earshot, even if the Doctor could care less whether they heard or not.

"As far as I could determine, though," the Doctor continued, "Everything you said to me on the phone is applicable. He is additionally showing signs of overwork, stress, maybe an inferiority complex, and possibly a construed sense of reality. Of course, he appeared to be perfectly 'all there' when we were talking to him, except for the fact that he definitely is very apathetic and very depressed. But, then, with these cases, they so often are capable of responding to the real world while still totally involved within their own. For all we know, he perceives us as actors in a television show in which he is acting, or characters in a book he believes himself to be reading. Maybe he was in the Middle East or something and suffers from shell-shock . . . I'm not quite sure after this brief incomplete diagnosis. At least he answered our questions well enough, it seems."

"It's so sad, the fact that he has no more family," Ms. Beeton said sympathetically, looking over the notes she had taken of the interview. "I mean, as an only child, I know what it's like to both one's parents . . . and the fact that they died so close together, when he was only in secondary school, that's so terrible. How did he get on, I wonder?"

"We'll find out soon enough, though. What did you think of his answers . . . do you believe he was lying at all?"

Ms. Beeton shook her head, adamant. "I doubt he was lying about anything. Whenever we asked an uncomfortable question, he said absolutely nothing. If he was lying, why did he refuse to answer those questions?"

"My sentiments are similar," the Doctor decided with a curt nod. "He had no reason to lie about what information he did give us. He doesn't strike me as the particularly creative type, either, so I do not believe any amount of it was fabricated. He did seem a bit disdainful, surprisingly, somewhat scornful when we tried to get him to talk about his inner world."

Reluctantly, Ms. Beeton agreed. "But it was rather complicated, from what I could tell." At this, she paused to dig in her pocket, and she drew out a long smooth stick of wood. "When I put his clothes into the washer, I found this."

She presented to Dr. Cromwell, who inspected it closely, shoving his glasses up his nose to better examine it. It had a dark varnish, and extremely well-worn, smooth surface.

"It's an awfully pretty thing, I think."

Dr. Cromwell shook his head deliberately. "You shouldn't think so. It's an instrument used by Wiccans. A rod, or wand."

Ms. Beeton was horrified. "Really? No wonder he's disturbed, in that case. But, you know," she added thoughtfully, "He didn't seem to mind me reading from Ephesians."

"Wiccans are, in my experience, gentle folk, and do not like to voice their opposing views very loudly except when with others of their type. However, also, you will notice that the man submitted to a blood and urine sample very easily. Most men would not put up with such demands without an explanation, or at least some sort of a fight. I have seen practiced doctors confront their colleagues angrily about demanding it. The patient we are dealing with is probably just as indifferent to these as to your reading. He's so apathetic that he has lost all hope of salvation, ultimately, and cares nothing for his surroundings. I'll wager that half the time it was being retranslated in his mind, anyhow."

At this, Dr. Cromwell stood and placed a heavy hand on Miss Beeton's shoulder. "Let him sleep for a long while, but bring him over tonight before I go home. I'll take care of the arrangements, so you don't have to sleep on a cot tonight, and we shall begin reconstruction of his broken soul first thing tomorrow."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dr. Cromwell was as good as his word, and found Mr. Robinson a very neat little room vacated just that morning by a schizophrenic woman. How the lady left was irrelevant—by her own convoluted methods, as the good Doctor divulged to Ms. Beeton in hushed undertones.

_How sad. Marybelle really had nothing wrong with her life, if only she saw . . . a husband who loved her, two great tots, no financial difficulties . . . oh, what a poor girl. _

Such was Ms. Beeton's silent reminiscence over the girl, along with a sad prayer, more of emotion than words, though no less as strong a plea to the Almighty's forgiveness. _Her illness made her do it._

She felt rather callous escorting Mr. Robinson into his new room so soon after the tragedy, but supposed that really, she ought to stop feeling so personally depraved every time something like this happened. It happened almost once every two years, and that was a moderately good number considering how many men and women passed through the graying halls of the facility. _Remember, though, that I mustn't cry like last time, or I shall be scolded by the good Doctor. Ah, but I wish I were as brave as him! _

Mr. Robinson seemed to sense that something had happened in the room, probably by the way the hairs on her own arms prickled from the eerie vibe. His eyes darted about suspiciously, examining everything from the floor to the ceiling, though never resting on his caretaker, as far as she could tell. Sadly, she drew the curtains and tried to figure out how Marybelle had killed herself. _If I thought I had to kill myself, how would I do it?_

"Miss Beeton? You look ill."

She blinked up from where she gazed out the window, contemplating the terrifying feeling of weightlessness she had felt (or imagined) as she gazed down three floors at the gray planter. He was not looking at her, of course, but had curled up on top of the new bed, eyes contemplating two dull brown Oxfords as his arms coddled his long, bony legs. Ms. Beeton smiled at him pleasantly.

"You can call me Betty. Everyone else here does."

"But your name is not Betty."

She looked at him, wondering how he was so perceptive, and his eyes met hers for the first time since that morning . . . already so long ago . . .

"It's Jennifer, true," she admitted, feeling elated that someone—_someone_ took the initiative to realize that!

"Jennifer Beeton." He tested her name on his lips, then shook his head, the entire weight of Mount Everest settling upon his weary shoulders as he slumped forward. "Thank you, Miss Beeton." He buried his face between his knees, wordlessly.

"Mr. Robinson, are you all right?"

She advanced, cautiously, and put a hand on his shoulder. Although he did not bat it away, his shoulder became more tight and rigid, like a corpse. Seeing her touch was unwelcome, her hand did not overstay its visit, and retreated as gently as it had pursued. Wondering if she should fetch him a glass of water, she took a step towards the open door of his room.

At once, he raised his hand to stop her. She did not move any further, and posed her attention to the man on the bed.

Without raising his head to acknowledge, he murmured as clearly as he could annunciate: "Miss Beeton, I am . . . unused to such kindness as you have displayed to me today. My weakness is . . ."

He did not finish.

"Your weakness is what, Mr. Robinson?" she asked kindly.

He remained silent for a long time, finally deciding: "Never mind."

That became his favorite phrase over the course of his convalescence.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The only way to describe Mr. Robinson was to say that he lacked all interest in life. Never had Ms. Beeton observed such an apathetic, lethargic being, so inaccessible and aloof from the world. All attempts to bring so much as a smile to his countenance completely and utterly failed—he seemed too intent on dueling within his mundane contemplations and morbid fantasies. He became Ms. Beeton's special patient, dredged so deeply into his introspection that he barely pair any attention to anyone or anything in the tangible world.

Once in a while, he might say something or another that alluded to his internal life. Usually, these instances were either to himself or in his sleep, and were only caught by Ms. Beeton when she was paying especial attention to his every undertone, or if the old night matron became alarmed by the shouting coming from his room. There were probably more allusions to such unfathomable things as 'death eaters' and 'green gods' and 'Mick Ronald', but the hospital had not the capability of paying for a nurse to stay with him constantly to catch his every utterance.

Occasionally, though, he did say strange things at random times, sometimes in such ordinary situations that his seriousness seemed almost farcical. For instance, his first morning Ms. Beeton was serving him his porridge, he burst out vehemently, "They ought never respect a Death eater again, no matter who he saved!" and then went back into a semi-daze. Ms. Beeton wondered what precise part of her story angered him—something about a movie she was looking forward to seeing, _Les Miserables_ based off the book by Victor Hugo, though she had not read the book; it had come out in May and she eagerly anticipated it coming on the tube. (1)

Another example of this unfortunate trait—which Ms. Beeton recorded duly in his records—was when, randomly, in the afternoon of his second day in the hospital, he burst into convulsive sobbing when Ms. Beeton suggested that he 'talk to her' about his 'inner world.' "I . . . I never realized how hated I had become until I overheard Sybil . . . Sybil, of all people! . . . telling Minerva how her 'inner eye clouded up every time I came near' her . . . and the woman had been sending me pathetic little love notes for years!" Before Ms. Beeton could make him explain, however, he had shut up and refused to talk for an hour.

He did end up shedding less tears as the days went by, although a week after his admittance he completely broke down his increasingly-stoic mein, and Ms. Beeton heard this confession: "Albus, you old fossil, how is it I cared for you, cared for you like the father I never had . . . despite the fact that you were becoming another Grindelwald? Despite the fact that you tore my soul to the point it might has well have become a separate horocrux in itself? Despite the fact that you constantly lied to me and never trusted me as fully as you tried to make me believe? Despite the fact that I knew how blind you really were to reality?" He went on and on, adding more and more 'despites' until he began to choke on his own stomach contents as they rose up his throat. Ms. Beeton could understand how terribly he was affected by the (possibly imaginary) man who had hurt him, and sincerely wished she could do something about it. She could not, however, do anything but sit by and wait for him to talk more.

His favorite habit was to let his head drop humbly, focusing all his attention upon his forearm, and, gently trace a faint tattoo there on his skin. It was a meditative, continual movement, and it seemed both relaxing and unnerving to him; his face was more reflective of his emotions than typically as he paid the mark attention.

Other than these instances and a few too trivial to mention, he did not display anything but passive resignation and mental retreat. Ms. Beeton and Dr. Cromwell found themselves fascinated by his case, and studied him intently. Soon they had a full file of analysis done on him. Dr. Cromwell found the results of his urine and blood tests strangely fascinating.

"He is in perfect health, as far as these go; maybe could use more calcium and iron in his diet, but there's no indication of any drugs of any sort, and just barely the faintest hint of alcohol in his bloodstream, which indicates that he was not a great consumer. Blood sugar a bit low, but not enough to classify himself with anything but deprivation of food for a few days. Metabolism like that of a teenager, actually, which shows why he can eat decently and still not gain weight."

The Doctor had scrutinized the blood diagnosis very carefully for one particular section, and actually had a new sample taken every day from Mr. Robinson after he discovered a strange peculiarity.

"There is a slight imbalance of his hormones, Betty, but not as much as I expected. To put it in short, based on these results, he is only facing an amount of depression, not strictly mental confusion or delusion, nor even a hint of multiple personality disorder. It's the deuced strangest thing."

He shrugged to Ms. Beeton after declaring this. "But, as you know, Betty, we mainly deal with alcohol and drug rehabilitation at this facility, so your Mr. Robinson is an extraordinary case that will require some learning on my part." Dr. Cromwell gave her a knowing look which made her slightly uneasy, and she left with a hurried excuse.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Accordingly, Ms. Beeton tried to help Mr. Robinson gain an interest for life. She brought him everything from paints to puzzles, but to no avail. He took everything, and did it, halfway grateful and halfway very annoyed. She still sensed an underlying scorn and prejudice towards her, as she had felt the first day with him, but knowing that he was probably not Christian while she treated him like one was a reasonable explanation for this. _After all, though, he's practically the only non-Christian I've met, so I have to treat him like everyone else. I can't do but that!_

One day, though, about three weeks after Mr. Robinson's admission to the facility, the cook took ill just before lunch with a bout of the flu. Cheerfully, Ms. Beeton volunteered to take her place. In the midst of her morning visit with Mr. Robinson—who was now almost the only person she had to care for due to his peculiarity and uniqueness—she found him suddenly raise an eyebrow with interest as she jabbered about the task at hand.

"You have to cook for . . . how many people this afternoon, Miss Beeton?"

"Why, about seventy!" She smiled, eyes radiant. _He asked a question! Why, this is the first question he has asked in weeks! His curiosity was sparked! Oh, dear lord, thank you! He is already beginning to recover!_

He clicked his tongue with disapproval. "Do you need any assistance with that? I don't suppose you know much about cooking."

"Absolutely!" Ms. Beeton stood up and brushed off her apron.

"Do you wish _me _to do so?"

"I would love it!" she cried, almost falling into happy laughter and tears. _He wants to do something! Do something with _me_! He has spoken more than twenty coherent words to her in a single minute! Oh, Lord, I am so happy! _

Completely oblivious to her ecstasy, Mr. Robinson followed her motion to stand. He almost did so at the speed of a normal person, though somewhat still slow—but no longer as reluctant as usual.

_Good Lord! He's getting better already! I could fly!_

So, even though they were not needed in the kitchen for another hour, she dragged the languid Mr. Robinson downstairs.

"I hope this mashed baboon brain and fermented chicken stock is _not_ the common fare of this establishment," he snarked, casting a disgusted look at the ingredients she laid out upon the counter for their preparation. Ms. Beeton looked at her very unusually critical patient reproachfully.

"Well, Mr. Robinson," she fretted, eager to please him but apologetic about the fact that she could not, "We are a government founded institution, and, unfortunately, we do not receive enough money to provide the staff and patients with gourmet on a daily basis." She actually had taken that almost verbatim from something the Doctor had said once, concerning the fact that she had caught him recycling syringes.

"Hmph. I wasn't looking for gourmet, Miss Beeton, merely for something edible."

His pessimism was a refreshing change from his monotonous depression, however, so Ms. Beeton did not complain at all. She watched as Mr. Robinson strode around the kitchen, poking his large nose into cupboards with a sharpness and virile vigor previously unseen in his personality. Ms. Beeton, completely taken aback, found herself accepting a graciously-proffered chair, clearly supposed to be the observer as Mr. Robinson set out to cook lunch for a large number of people.

Margarine intended for bread went into a pan, along with the scant amount of vegetables intended for the soup—celery, carrots, and mushrooms. He found a bag of frozen green peas , which he added to supplement the sautee, as well as a few chopped onions from who knows where. He seasoned this with a tad of salt, then set the large skillet aside. A few left-over baked potatoes soon were turned into a clever gnocci, and the sautee was poured over these once cooked. Setting a plate before Ms. Beeton, he took the gray chicken breast and the truthfully dingy cans of broth, and requested to throw them away in the garbage.

"Such ingredients as these are . . . really quite disturbing," he assured her.

"By all means, Mr. Robinson!" Ms. Beeton smiled, as always, but with a positive radiance that made her most becoming.

"Tell me, though, is it any good?"

As mouth watering as his conction looked, the first mouthful had not graced her lips yet. She felt his eyes boring into hers as she eagerly pounced on the meal. "Dear Lord!" she murmured, "This is excellent!"

A slow, satisfied smile curved the edge of his mouth—but as soon as she saw, it disappeared. Nevertheless, the image remained burnt into her memory, and became her new mental picture of him. He could smile. He _had _smiled. At her! A glow rose through her body, rising from her feet to her abdomen to her head.

However, even as she looked at him, all the spirit and energy seeped from his body, and both strength and presence of mind evaporated. His lean form sank, desperately, dispassionately, almost accidentally collapsing into a chair.

"It's wonderful, Mr. Robinson." She attempted to assure him again, growing worried that he had not heard her the first time. He was not assuaged. "I ought to serve the meal, though," she said, rising; he obviously was not up for the task. "Would you like to help me again at dinner?"

"I suppose." Again, the impassive face of a man who had nothing to live for at all. Ms. Beeton ladled plates of gnocchi for the rest of the hospital, feeling elated and yet more saddened at the same time. Even though he had made it himself, the poor man ate his meal with the same lack of gusto he had shown the first day, and she ended up practically feeding it to him again in the kitchen. _He made such a leap forward, but suddenly he's back to the way he was that first day . . . entirely . . ._

"It can only be a step forward, this backfired leap," Dr. Cromwell deliberated, pondering later that afternoon as Ms. Beeton related the epic. "Of course, one can expect him to come back and leaps and bounds only to relapse eventually. His sort—the absurdly intelligent type—is prone to that. Yet, for him, with every leap forwards, there is no doubt that he will gain something from the experience, and he won't fall back as far as he was before. He'll be growing, but expects himself to grow sometimes too fast. That's why I prefer pleasantly stupid people, like you."

Ms. Beeton was somewhat surprised at her flatly calling her 'stupid', but realized it was just his backhand sense of complimenting her.

"I just hope and pray he gets better," she voiced, and sighed. "It's the saddest case I've ever seen, his is."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

A very exciting coincidence. I was just thinking that perhaps Miss Beeton should be excited to see the movie, but I was worried that it was made in 2001 or something, so I looked it up . . . and discovered to my utter delight that it came out in May 1998, just in perfect time for her to know about it in the same month of the same year. Yay! I love when these things work out perfectly.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hm. I wrote that this was going to be five chapters or something . . . well, it won't be. I'm not making it any longer than what is in my notebook, but I think it is better split up into many more chapters than the four I originally intended. Oh well, that's more fun for you, probably. Hold you in suspense. :)_

**Chapter 4**

Although his first debut in the kitchen was entirely solitary, Mr. Robinson lessened his dominance of the counters considerably, to the point that he allowed Ms. Beeton to work alongside him for the next meal. Actually, 'allowed' would be an understatement: he almost refused to do anything but sit and watch her that evening. However, with her gentle encouragement, and her inability to do anything right in his opinion, he soon was up and busy, though with considerably less enthusiasm than prior. They made . . . _something_, that night, with odds and ends from the kitchen again. Ms. Beeton could not really remember the name of it, since it was French.

The next day, he awoke, as morose and late as usual, but Ms. Beeton reminded him of the task they shared while the cook was away, and it was this remembrance that inspired him to get up a little less exhaustedly than usual. He swore up and down that, after breakfast, they really needed to get out and do some shopping, because, as he put it, there was absolutely 'no decent trifles whatsoever', and the kitchen 'ought to be a disgrace to any man with a conscience.'

Elated to see him so eager, Ms. Beeton received the daily shopping allotment from Dr. Cromwell (who was in charge of the institutional finances and such) and set off with Mr. Robinson to the local market. The electric energy she had seen overtake him the day before again struck through his body, and it was hard for her to keep up with him all morning. It was amazing, really, how well he kept within the budget, badgering with the fishmonger, cryptically examining every price tag and calculating the totals by tapping his fingers on his arm, reminiscent of a piano-player studying a hard bit of Gershwin.

They even ended up with a little bit extra left over after all the purchases had been made, with which they purchased a good bit of chocolate to make some delectable-sounding dessert he had on his mind. All in all, Ms. Beeton was astounded by the real vitality the man had dormant within him, which only showed when he was keenly interested in something.

Every meal that the pair of them were in charge with that day were definite hits, with both the patients who cared enough to notice, and the staff; Doctor Cromwell in particular. The man, ever eager to save a penny, ended up sending away the professional cook entirely. Dr. Cromwell decided that, definitely, Mr. Robinson's skill in the kitchen was far better and more economical, and so he took advantage of it.

Mr. Robinson had protested articulately at this development at first, but since the Ms. Beeton had reported the therapeutic qualities of the kitchen work, there was no way for him to refuse both the Doctor and his nurse. For a while, he had refused to help if he was put under an obligation, but when Ms. Beeton had to star working alone, he eventually yielded to demand because she really was so inept in the kitchen.

"You're better as the taste-tester," he told her acerbically, "They do say that the fat do actually have keener senses in that department, though I daresay that's balderdash."

It did not take him very long to criticize her bulk once his tongue became more loose with activity, and it was obvious that he was uncommonly disgusted by her. When she asked him 'why?' for the first time, he saw no point in concealing it with false tact. "Ms. Beeton, for the entirety of my life I have been only persecuted or badly treated by people with effusive goodness and/or rather too much weight on them. You are the ultimate of these two extremes, and therefore you must understand why I am wary, and, often, repulsed by you. I recommend you do not take it personally."

She never wrote down these things, since her memory served her well enough that she would be haunted by his words for months afterwards, and she did not want to be embarrassed by Dr. Cromwell looking over the file and noticing the strange comments made by the patient. It was her suspicion that, if the Doctor ever learned of them, he would have kicked out Mr. Robinson into the street without any consideration. The Doctor considered their establishment a Christian one, and would not tolerate any indecencies. Ms. Beeton was of the opinion, however, that just because a man might be a bit rude, he ought not be refused mercy. That was where she felt she was different from Doctor Cromwell.

On the side, she did notice that every time Mr. Robinson said something negative about her, though, she realized she was present—he never talked about her behind her back, to anyone. So, even though he would say things like, "Ms. Beeton, you irritate me because of . . ." something or another, he would never talk about it with anyone else, least of all the Doctor. He was virtually a closed book to all but Ms. Beeton, and that was only because she was spending every waking minute with him. Nevertheless, she felt that his brutal honesty was the mark of his ultimate trust, and so she told herself to never mind his stringent comments and criticisms.

Something else that he at first ignored, but eventually came to strongly criticize, was her beautiful Christian nature. "You know, the rest of Britain does not operate like this institution does, as far as I know. In the rest of the world, people don't think it very kind to constantly refer to religion, especially in daily conversation. I would appreciate if you would cease with your badly-hidden attempts to make me follow your version of morality, since, first, they will not have any affect upon me, and second, because I find them highly annoying and make me dislike you all the more intensely. "

She had replied with Dr. Cromwell's trained response, "We're trying to help you, Mr. Robinson, not force religion into you! Your spiritual soul is obviously not in the best place at this point, since you're always so . . . sad . . . and it's obvious that you don't feel happy with your current life . . .and we just want you to know that Jesus loves you, more than you could ever know!"

At this, he had raised an eyebrow warily, asking "Is that your view or the Doctor's?"

"The institution's!"

He had no reply.

Sooner than later, Mr. Robinson had stayed in the hospital for almost a full year, and Ms. Beeton had gained a stone and a half due to her patient's culinary skill. Their habits had changed but slightly; now Mr. Robinson called her 'Jennifer' except when he was being critical of her, and he never woke up late anymore. Instead, he found it within himself to begin the day by jogging around the large, scantily-cultivated property behind the hospital. As to the other residents of the hospital . . . he never gave them so much as a glance. Recovering drunkards, druggies, and the like, he kept a clear distance away from them all, never joining the company of any besides his nurse. Jennifer was slightly concerned with this anti-sociality, but secretly reveled in this fact that _she_ was the only one he even halfway cared to spend time with.

In essence, it was clear to her that Mr. Robinson was not a bad man. He occasionally showed displays of temper in his worst times—and a cynical, witty sense of humor in his best. He had a certain sarcastic streak very often, too, but Jennifer was intensely of the opinion that these downfalls simply gave him character. In her view, actually, any diversion from the languid, morose state he commonly faced was a step forward, one more brick on his golden road to recovery.

Jennifer discovered something else rather quickly about spending time with Mr. Robinson. For all his faults, and even though she did not have a proper name to call him, devoting twelve hours of her day with him did nothing to quell the initial attraction she had felt from the moment she first held him in her arms.

He was younger than he looked, though, which saddened her. She had been brought up with the mentality that one's husband _must_ be older, for some reason, and Mr. Robinson was thirty-nine to Jennifer's fifty-one. Astrologically, too, their signs were little compatible: he had let on, once, that he was a Capricorn, and compared to Jennifer's Gemini, they would 'really have to work hard at a romantic relationship', which, to her mind, meant that they were virtually impossible. This knowledge, of course, merely made him more enticing, the forbidden fruit put forth to tempt her. Oh, but she could not deny it, after a short time she gave in to the understanding that, for the first time in her life, she had fallen in love.

She knew she could never say anything, especially not to him, but it gave her a face to accompany her own when she re-read _Pride and Prejudice _in the evenings, alone at home. Envisioning Mr. Robinson as the enigmatic Mr. Darcy was quite easy, in her opinion, almost uncannily so.

One thing that disappointed her greatly was the fact that since the time she first met him, he refused to let her hug him, or touch him in any way, except very hesitantly and briefly. Once, he had been in the middle of a daytime nap enforced by the Doctor when Jennifer had awakened him from one of his numerous nightmares. When he awoke and came back to reality, he tore away from her comforting hand and turned savagely away from her, scowling. He was so close to her, and yet so unattainable; it made her very sad.

Mr. Robinson's Wiccan 'wand' resided in Dr. Cromwell's secret desk drawer, safe and well locked-up from the day of its confiscation, but, to the amazement of both the Doctor and Jennifer, it showed up one day on the side-table of the man, months after he had been admitted into the facility.

Mr. Robinson, when he woke to find it, said to Jennifer, "Jennifer, I suppose this goes to prove that you just don't separate a man from his wand. It's cruel, not only for the master to abstain from it, but for the wand itself."

The interesting thing about this incident was that Dr. Cromwell had locked his office very securely that night due to a newly-admitted kleptomaniac, and yet there was no evidence the morning after of Mr. Robinson's having entered the office--everything was immaculate and untouched.

"The most deuced thing how he got it again," the Doctor declared exasperatedly, "Not even the most infantismal evidence of his coming in, yet he still has got his wand, and his wand is certainly no longer in my drawer."

Mr. Robinson did not seem to use his wand, though—in fact, Jennifer thought it had disappeared again almost as soon as he got it back—but she soon saw that he kept it constantly in his sleeve. It was a chilling thought, Jennifer decided, realizing that he was so attached to that smooth stick of wood that he was admittedly inseparable from it. It was almost as though he worshiped it, as some sort of strange and scary little pet. Jennifer swore up and down that, someday, she wold wean him from it and make him a Christian, despite his protestations against her missionary advances.

As to his own little world, soon traces of it began to disappear from his conversation entirely, though sometimes he would snort at himself (with amusement!) for sounding 'too Muggle'.

Otherwise, Mr. Robinson almost never talked about himself or his inner world, to the impatience of Dr. Cromwell and Jennifer. The only clues they ever really gathered were from his nightmares, when the night matron would write down feebly-collected notes on the things he said. They had accumulated a good sum of information from these, and the most major facts they discovered from these were thus: He was a teacher at some sort of institution called Hog's Warts or Hog-Warts, depending on how clearly he was speaking, and his employer was a wretched man named Voldimurt, whom everyone hated, Mr. Robinson included. This Voldimurt had forced Mr. Robinson to kill the girl he loved as a young man (the real life girl Lily Evans, purportedly) and then later Mr. Robinson had become an officer in the army, only to unwittingly send her _son_ to _his_ death against a band of 'death eaters'.

Jennifer was puzzled at how they did all this killing in his world, since he never made mention of any artillery or weapons, but occasionally he began to speak in a fluent gibberish that Dr. Cromwell confirmed was classical Latin, so the caretakers inferred that the language might have been used to create spells or incantations of the like. Again, Mr. Robinson never failed to insist that he ought to have died after being killed by a snake, and more often than not he lamented after some teacher he used to have named Alfus Bumble Door. However, whenever Jennifer would talk to him after one of these terrible dreams, he would calm up and not say a word for a good long time—at least, until she dramatically changed the subject.

It was tiresome, true, but collecting more information was sure to help in some way.

Many mornings, after the breakfast rush, they would return from the daily shopping, and Jennifer would proceed to provoke her patient to take her out into the prim and well-kempt gardens. Her main concern was to keep him from going into his room and locking her out; Dr. Cromwell decided after a time that just keeping Mr. Robinson busy was the best way to progressively cure the patient.

On such mornings, Jennifer led him through the sliding glass doors for their usual walk. The expanse of the lawn did somewhat extend in sloppy green waves behind the institution. There were no paths, and no flowers to speak of—just a few large old oaks and wiry beeches interspersed between them. A bench was located here or there, all within a decent distance of each other, to prevent accidental eavesdropping.

Mr. Robinson's favorite (really he had little preference; it was Jennifer's favorite in reality) was under one of the oaks—there was moss on its roots and trunk, and the sound of a broken water main guzzled nearby somewhere unseen, imitating the sound of a trickling creek. It was to here that, typically, Jennifer and Mr. Robinson would walk. They usually got about a mile's exercise, back and forth, which Jennifer maintained was doing her a lot of good, but Mr. Robinson just laughed at her when she said that.

Mr. Robinson's walk was regal, no matter his mental state, Jennifer decided. His carriage proud, almost arrogant these days, and if he was not specifically attempting to stay at her side, his long strides coupled with the briskness of his step would soon leave her alone. Occasionally, she did bid him to run ahead, and dutifully he would—his speed quite that of a much younger man, and when she finally arrived to the bench he had not even broken a sweat.

Jennifer treasured these moments with Mr. Robinson out in the yard, probably much more than she ought to have. An occasional squirrel's skirmish or bird call was the only disrupting sound to the slow, heavy breathing of Mr. Robinson. She joined him on the iron bench, panting slightly from her own exertion, and they would sit together.

She never tried to sit too close, and if she did inadvertently settle her bulk an inch nearer than he was comfortable with, he would discretely slouch in the other direction. Usually, Jennifer did not have much to say while they were outside, her senses too fully of the exhilaration of the crisp air, the wind shaking the tree boughs, and nature in general.

She was not blind to the fact, though, that Mr. Robinson was noticeably less tense in this therapeutic environment, and she could almost venture to say his entire appearance relaxed. His continually furrowed brow seemed to erase a few wrinkles, his gangly limbs seemed to spread out every which way like elegant tree boughs, and his hair (now in better condition under Jennifer's care) swayed softly in the breeze, leek and gentle as willow branches. He actually looked as though he would make an excellent beech himself; stern, silent, yet non-aggressive, a strong sentinel standing solidly against a gale.

Jennifer, at this reflection, had the impulse to throw her arms around him and press him into her voluptuous bosom. However, she resisted, for she knew—like a tree, he would make no effort to embrace her in return. The idea, as many ideas about Mr. Robinson did, saddened her.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

I had to reply to this anonymous review from another Alex. (And no, readers, I swear it wasn't me just posting a review on my own story!) Read the entire review; she made some really pertinent points. Other people have mentioned some of the other things she said, but I decided to respond to this one because I can't in a normal review reply. (Shame on you, dear, get an account!)

"**I have to admit to being severely creeped out by the constant references** **to Christianity! Even as a Christian myself."** That's one of the main points I'm trying to make. Hit the nail absolutely on the head. It's supposed to be creepy! **"Secularism is btw the most common, dominant orientation in Britain: most ( . . . )aren't devout or even visit masses often. Let alone missionarize in any way." **I am an American, true, but I watch so many British movies and read so many British books that I believe I have a good sense of British culture. And not just Agatha Christies, either; modern British novels as well. I am, therefore, fairly well aware that they are not majorly religious. However, Snape has not been much in Muggle society for a while, and is somewhat unaware of the absurdity of this institution. If you look deeply, you can see that although Ms. Beeton really does care about her religious beliefs and spreading them, (though she really is quite stupid and really belongs in the 1600s converting 'heathens' in California) Dr. Cromwell uses it more as pretense. I did not choose his name for nothing . . . actually, I did not choose either of their names for nothing. **"It also makes the whole setting very non-British because that is NOT how religion is viewed in Britain (I lived there for a time) or in the majority of the Europe!"** This will be commented on later by Snape, so he will strangely be the dose of realism in this institution where he is purportedly the one without a sense of reality. I love the irony in that. **"Though I would expect HIM to be bewildered by the to a Briton very foreign and intrusive behaviour described above..."** He is, slightly, but he does not do anything about it for a while due to his apathetic depression, merely accepting it as it is. Ms. Beeton is not the danger, and he understands that, and actually trusts her to a degree. **"At the moment your writing invokes visions to me of Snape being rescued by these people - only for the fic to take a more sinister turn . . ."** Maybe, maybe not. Brainwashing is a leetle extreme, and physically impossible, but there is a more sinister point to the story. If you knew me better, you would know that I myself am NOT Christian, (even though I can recite Bible verses off the top of my head, like with the Ephesians 2 8-9 Ms. Beeton loves so much) and that this story is a small crusade against intolerance.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"How do you feel, Mr. Robinson?"

They were out in the yard one morning, and Jennifer's voice was soft as she tried to interpret the impassive mask the man wore. It was hard to imagine him mentally afflicted out there, alone with him, but Jennifer did have her responsibilities as a nurse to remember.

He turned to her, a lock of hair coming displaced from behind his ear and drifted to half-cover his high cheekbone.

She sighed as she looked at him. Lately, her romance novels were becoming more and more painful to read, as they influenced her emotions while she was with Mr. Robinson in the day. Subsiding into a willing reverie, she wondered how Mr. Robinson would kiss. Not that she would ever know, of course; he was still disgusted by her 'sheep-like characteristics' and her 'likeness to the Ex-President Taft of the U.S.' and 'positively disturbing stubbornness in all matters Christian' and 'atrocious quasi-talent in the kitchen'. She knew that a man who thought such things of a woman—and straightforwardly told her so—would never be inclined to kiss her. At least, not in reality; Mr. Darcy was a different matter altogether.

Despite her hopelessness, she allowed herself to just . . . imagine it. While he sat, staring in contemplation at a cluster of other trees in the distance, she closed her eyes and pretended . . . pretended that now he was turning to her, saying, as if they were juxtaposed into a romance novel . . .

_'You're sad, Jennifer. Tell me why.'_

_'Oh, dear Mr. Robinson, you wouldn't understand. It's just so dreadfully complicated. I feel so foolish!'_

_'What is it?'_

_'I . . . oh, ducky, it doesn't matter, it's just . . .'_

_Jennifer turned away, wondering what she ought to say. She couldn't admit that she was in love with him, it would never work between them . . . the nurse and the patient . . ._

_'Would this make it any better?'_

_And she gasped as his strong arms encircled her neck, and she felt cold shivers of apprehension as his face drew near hers, and she almost screamed with enthusiasm as she felt his lips grace her own in a passionate first kiss. Deep, dark, and longing, she realized . . . oh, the impossible! . . . that he was in love with her as well! His nose made the initial contact a trifle awkward, of course, but he turned his face slightly so it no longer was problematic. The sharp tongue that had so often criticized her now instead caressed her, the irony sent her into -_

She was broken from her reverie, with Mr. Robinsons real, significantly colder voice. "Old," he replied carefully, in reply to her previous question. She could not help but admire his eyes—so rich and black and warm!--almost animalistic as they focused on a corner of the iron bench. _Aquiline_, Jennifer decided, _definitely like a horse's . . . both beautiful and unfrightened and dually unfrightening._ He caught her gaze, then, his eyes drifting upwards to make contact with her own.

A sudden sensation struck Jennifer, and she felt every emotion, sight and sound memory she ever experienced flooding the front of her mind. She could not focus on the fact that he was gazing at her steadfastly, as if he wanted to say something desperately important—her mind was too overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of memories.

All sorts of things came to her mind . . . memories she herself thought were long gone. Being teased by schoolmates because she was a slow student in every subject except sewing. Her first job interview, which was an utter failure. The Pythagorean theorem, and the picture of a delicious ice cream cone next to it in her Algebra textbook from secondary school. Her best friend Chelsea, who had moved to New Zealand. The day her waistline became too broad to fit into her favorite tweed suit, some ten years ago. Her last trip to visit Chelsea in New Zealand, all expenses paid by her immensely rich but very generous husband. The traveling pastor who had visited the institution some years ago who had been desperately cute. Ultimately, too, the insuppressible love she felt for Mr. Robinson and her very recent fantasy of them kissing.

And then, just as suddenly as it had settled upon her, the strange sensation vanished. Jennifer shook her head forcibly to clear it of the strange haze, similar to the dust hanging in the air after someone obnoxiously stomps about in a dust pile. She looked at Mr. Robinson, whose attention had been drawn away from her by an invisible motion in the trees or some such. She shook her head again, violently. That was certainly the strangest feeling she had experienced in a long while, and it left her highly disconcerted.

"Are you all right, Jennifer?"

If she were a more frail or susceptible woman, Jennifer would have swooned there. However, as she considered herself rather practical and sensible, she withstood the impulse—it was, after all, only her imagination which had tricked her ear into thinking he sounded very concerned. So concerned that she dared to compare his tone with that of when he declared, "I killed _her" _in the middle of his nightmares. And right now, he did _not _look as though he himself had unintentionally wounded her . . . he did _not_ appear apprehensive as a man who had unintentionally put his loved one into danger . . .

"No, I'm absolutely all right, I suppose I might just be getting a headache." _Not a lie, that—my heart's pounding so that it makes my head truly throb too!_

And then, in exactly the manner she had dreamed not minutes before, albeit more hesitatingly, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "Would . . . would this make it any better?"

It was just exactly what she imagined. His arms, wiry and supple, were at first virtually unsure what to do with themselves, but they soon caught an understanding of the moment and gently snaked their way around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. Uncannily, just as she had predicted, his nose made a predicament when he tried to kiss her, and rather got in the way.

This setback made him retreat slightly, and Mr. Robinson seemed a bit shocked at what he had almost done. Seeing, though, Jennifer's quiet chuckling, he graced her with one of his rare smiles in return. "That was worse than expected," he said sourly, then tried again, with a new confidence, turning his head a little more than necessary for the second attempt. His large, beautiful, Roman nose just grazed her own pudgy one softly, but then their lips met, and she completely forgot it.

The experience was better than she imagined, which was a fortunate thing for her, since she had feared for years that the experience of kissing somebody would be a let-down unequal to anything else. She was utterly and completely pleased to discover that she was wrong in this supposition.

It was long, deep, and passionate, steeped with all the poignancy and romance of every great cliché kiss in film and television. It was her first kiss, and utter magic. She simply melted there in his arms, and was absolute clay. If he had insisted they jump off a cliff, take a motorcycle ride across the Atlantic, or start shagging right there, Jennifer would not have hesitated to concede. _It's foolish, this thing, but . . . Lord! I love this man!_

Incredibly to her, he seemed to love her in return.

"You . . . you love me?" she asked, as his head fell to leaning on her soft shoulder, as he still clasped her tightly in his arms. A low chuckle—one of the few good-hearted forms of expressing amusement he showed—shook his body with nearly silent mirth.

"You could say something to the accord," he stated. In a way reminiscent to when they first met, he buried his head in her chest, pulling her as close to him as physically possible, in attempt to defy the laws of mass displacement.

"I . . . I can't imagine why," flustered Jennifer, wondering why she was so ineloquent. In any proper Austen novel, she would have something quite cute to say, which would lead to another kiss on the man's part. "I've done really-"

"-Is that to say that you do not return my affections?" he interrupted, obviously not serious, but rather amused.

"No, no, I do!" she replied vehemently, giddy and excited. "I love you! I love-"

At this point, though, she broke off, remembering sadly that she still did not have anything besides "Robinson, U.(for unknown) on his files". He seemed to remember too, at the same instant, and looked a little dejected.

"You don't know my name . . . but you still love me. Alas!" He was bitter now. "How these trivialities dominate our lives! Ah, the _blessings_ of modern society!"

Jennifer said nothing, wondering if now he regretted his confession.

He turned to her, impulsively, a cryptic lopsided smile on his countenance. "Well, Jennifer, I believe you deserve the only fair experience of knowing something about me. My first name is Severus. But, pray, never ask me for my last. I beg it of you."

She breathed the word on her lips. _Severus. _She could think of no more fitting name.

"That's beautiful, Severus."

Then, of her volition, she decided to play the stronghold, and raised his chin. The melancholy eyes enchanted hers again, and the pair kissed once more.

He tasted a bit salty, she decided, but with a hint of the orange scones they made for breakfast that morning. There was a quiet passion in his grasp, as if he were restraining himself, or not quite wholehearted. His reserve, nevertheless, lent a chaste feel to the situation, and Jennifer could imagine nothing but the idea that they were in an 1800s romance novel. It was beautiful, positively divine.

They remained there in silence for the better part of an hour, actually; once they tired of snogging, they simply sat together in close contentment, his head on her shoulder and their hands intertwined. Jennifer completely forgot that the man—Severus, he had a name now!--was mentally ill, and a pagan, to boot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Betty, I do believe you are killing me," Dr. Cromwell decided firmly. "You're putting yourself in a dangerous position. A position I hate to see you in." The good Doctor settled back in his chair after reading the very hasty report composed by the nurse for the day. "You wrote . . . you wrote that he made a confirmation of love to you? But how?"

"He kissed me," Jennifer replied, already regretting her decision to record a note of the morning's activities. She was very pink, and very flustered.

"Once? Twice? On the hand? On the cheek?"

"For a while . . . a good while, I suppose, and on the lips." She flushed gingerly.

Dr. Cromwell put his head in his hands. "My dear, he's a patient."

"I know that, doctor."

A burning rose to her face, and she realized her real lapse of responsibility shaming her. Dr. Cromwell continued to mutter to himself, then lifted his head. With an air of finality, he declared: "I can't let him take advantage of you like that, Betty. It's not decent and it's not right. I would not be a Christian man if I allowed it."

Jennifer felt her forehead crease. She had not felt 'taken advantage of', per se . . . t then she realized, Dr. Cromwell did not understand her mutual feelings for Mr. Robinson.

"Oh, but, well, out of it, I found out his first name," Jennifer gabbed, not sure whether it was better to tell him or not. "Severus."

"What?"

"Severus."

Dr. Cromwell thought a moment. "Oh. Like the old Roman emperors. There was a whole dynasty of them." Jennifer was interested, but the Doctor did not elaborate. "I'm fairly certain that is not really his name, a fabrication of his disturbed mind," the Doctor decided irritably. "What person names their kid something like that these days?"

"It could be true," Jennifer proposed meekly.

"It's possible, but not probable," replied the Doctor concisely. Then he looked intensely at her. "Betty, I officially forbid you to take the patient into the yard alone again. I would also like to limit the time you spend attending to his needs in the evening. Desmonda and I can manage his trivial progress reports. You will stay in open, unconfined spaces with this man."

"What about cooking?" asked Jennifer, but was ignored, to her great relief.

"I really do not want anything to happen to you, my dear." At this, the Doctor stood and took her hand, gentler than she had ever seen him. "I've never said anything before, but I suppose the time is right. I love you, Betty, and there's no denying it. I see you and me, sometime in the near future, enjoined by the holy bond of matrimony."

He grasped her hand tighter, and went on, "I see you as the perfect wife, my dear. Docile, uncomplaining, a good listener, not too intelligent to the point where you do not disagree with anything I say, meek, mild, and subservient. You would do anything I told you, and we would have a very satisfactory and decidedly good life under God."

Comfortably, and a bit more closely than she liked, he put his arm over her shoulder. She could smell his excess of cologne, feel the stiffness of his starched lab coat, and hear the smacking of his tongue against the top of his mouth as he thought of how to phrase his words. "Betty, I value these traits in you, but I don't want you spoiled by a madman. Please."

Jennifer's hair stood on end, and, carefully, she replied: "I'll be careful."

Then nodding, she left, her mind reeling with the new developments. She did not like the Doctor in that way, but he would be the more reasonable choice, from her standpoint. _Not that I really want to get married too soon, but it is funny how things have worked out. This really is turning into an Austen novel._

_. . . x . . . X . . . x . . ._

Severus was asleep in his room when she went to wake him for preparing dinner. He seemed happy, curled up in the fetal position on top of the coverlet, his pale face smoother and more relaxed than she had ever seen of it. Jennifer wondered if it would be miss to follow her current impulse and take him into her arms, or follow the Doctor's orders and stay away from him. It somehow seemed more romantic to disregard the stern recommendation of the professional caretaker, seemed more like what Elizabeth Bennet might do. Settling to a compromise, she simply seated herself on the bed alongside him, just barely letting her fingertips stroke his long hair.

His eyes fluttered open, and his mouth opened with automatic protest, but then he recognized her and—joyously!--he smiled!

The jubilation she felt was too much to withhold, and Jennifer leaned in to kiss him. Oh, but the day before she would have barely dared to dream of this! He responded in kind, fully awake now as the full figure of the nurse ensconced his stick figure in a warm, loving embrace.

"Hello, ducky," Jennifer said, almost trembling with excitement. She had been half afraid that the events of the morning might have been forgotten, or a dream. He obviously had not.

"Hullo, Jennifer." With a great manly effort, he sat up, even with her practically on top of him. "Ah. What time is it?"

He brushed his slightly askew hair out of his face, drawing a sigh of exhilaration from Jennifer. _He is too beautiful. _

Replying to his amused glance of askance, Jennifer said, "You thrill me."

"That's a new one," he replied, his lips twitching with a half smile.

"Oh, smile again," she begged, desiring to see the innocuous benign expression of delight. He raised an eyebrow instead, but complied—overly so; he bore his teeth like a Cheshire cat and looked positively evil.

"Not like that, really!" exclaimed Jennifer, giggling. Severus shook his head—he would not seriously smile upon request. He took her hand, then descended from the bed to the floor.

"Come now, though, what time is it?" He had a one-track mind, of course.

"Time to start dinner."

"As I supposed," he remarked dully, then opened the door for her with a flourishing bow. "After you, mademoiselle," he insisted, and Jennifer got off the bed to approach the door. Just as she passed him, brushing against his arm, he suddenly grabbed her around the middle and literally swept her off her feet. With only a half-hearted gasp of protest, Jennifer succumbed to giggling.

Unfortunately, he overestimated his strength, for in a moment they were both on the floor, his knees having given way with the surprise of her weight in his arms. They laughed at it. _Goodness. We've only been in love since this morning, and it feels like forever. I can't say how much I enjoy his touch!_

"Merlin, you're a walrus," he declared, but she now knew he was only teasing. "But that's not to say I mind," he went on, noticing the sad look that came to her eyes unwittingly. "I prefer a woman of substance. " She still seemed a little depressed at that, and he frowned. "Merlin, stop looking so pathetic every time I say something like that; I'm one of the few men who appreciate the aesthetic value of a voluptuous woman."

She smiled as she felt his arms drape around her. Suddenly, on an impulse, she decided to ask . . .

"Severus, do you think I'm subservient?"

He was so surprised he almost dropped his arms and her along with them. "What? That certainly came from out of the blue!"

"Well, someone told me today that I was subservient. I'm not really sure what that means. They said it like it was a good thing."

"I can tell you," he said, a hard-edged forcefulness coming to his voice, "That whoever told you subservience was a 'good thing' is decidedly off his onion. That's 'communist' theology. Or, as in many cases it is, pseudo-communist theology. That's how dictators like . . . oh, Stalin, for instance . . . get so many people to follow them for virtually no reason." He gave her a strange look. "You know what subservience is, right?"

She loved when he got so enthusiastic about explaining things to her that even when she did understand the concept—like, they had a similar discussion on capitalism, once, and the industrial revolution another time—she would listen intently. He was a masterful teacher, and she wondered if, perhaps, that had been his profession before he came here.

"Well, I would like it if you explained it," she asked kindly.

Sighing, Severus slipped out from underneath her and stood. "All right. So, consider this. A man in the 1800s named Karl Marx wrote a book called _The Communist Manifesto, _which told about the bloke's idea that there should be a major revolution. Truly major. The working class taking over the rich and even some of the middle class. Only the middle class members who supported their cause would be spared." He cleared his throat, and began to pace back and forth in front of her.

"This book became highly popular and well-read, but also dreadfully misinterpreted by so many people. Some of these misinterpretations were accidental, many on purpose. Entire political movements occurred, embodying the misinterpreted 'communistic' ideals. Like in the case of . . . oh, the bloke in charge of Korea, Castro in Cuba, and for a long time the Soviet Union. However, they just call themselves 'communist', since their misinterpretation is purely intentional, and nobody does anything about it! Somewhat like people calling themselves a 'democratic republic' or 'people's democracy' or something absurd like that, when there is no real republic or democracy anywhere in the government whatsoever. It just sounds respectable."

Now he was on a rant, and Jennifer was at full attention.

"But going back to someone calling you 'subservient' . . . why, that, I believe, is the worst compliment a person in a free country like Britain can give another." He snorted with contempt. "Tell an American that, and they'll be all over you in a second; I've seen it done. In any case, it intimates that you . . . that you can't think on your own. That the person who said that does not even think of you as a human individual . . . just a sheep." He paused.

"You've called me a sheep before, Severus," reminded Jennifer gently, wondering what he would say to that.

"Now wait, that's . . ." Severus began to protest, but then a thought struck him like lightening. He rounded upon her, crouching down to her level on the floor. "It was Cromwell who told you that, right? Don't tell me I'm wrong; I know it was."

"It was _Doctor _Cromwell," insisted Jennifer stoutly.

"He doesn't deserve the title; as I've said before, he's definitely not qualified." Seeing her sad, stubborn look of reproach, he sat down next to her again and took her into his arms. "I apologize; I know you respect him. But I would advise you to be careful of him . . . I've never liked his modus operandi, and I believe that there's something suspicious about his whole game."

Jennifer laughed at this. "Do you know, he said exactly the same thing to me about you in our conversation earlier?"

"Because you had to tell him that I kissed you, right?" He shook his head. "I expected you would; my dear, you really need to learn some discretion. Not everybody should be told everything. But it does not matter. Sometime I need to teach you that honesty is not always the best policy. Lying can save your hide—and there's nothing that better can get you out of a tight situation than a good bluff. Of course, with your conscience, you'd end up telling only a half-lie no matter what, but even that's better than the whole truth, very often."

He sighed again, nestling his head on her shoulder. "I really wish I had done _that_ sooner," he stated miserably, obviously referring to their exploits of the morning. "Things are so much better now. But Jennifer, listen to me," he stated seriously, "I've been knocked about the globe a good many years, and I'm the worse for wear to prove it. But I've also gained a certain knowledge about humankind . . . and I can tell you one thing—watch out for Dr. Cromwell. He doesn't even call you by your real name, for Merlin's sake! And I know that I must seem insane, sometimes . . . that's why I haven't been kicked out of this place yet, I guess . . . and, granted, I was a little disturbed when I came here . . . but I'm not now. And I know you've known him for years, and me for only . . . well, the better part of one . . . but I've grown accustomed to your face, my dear, and I don't want it hurt. So, just use your better judgment."

He turned his head up and whispered in her ear these last words. "You are an individual, Jennifer. Not a sheep. Never forget that."

At this, he quickly stood up, helping her as well, and a second later Jennifer heard footsteps coming down the hallway. In a flash, Severus tucked himself in the bed, and donned a sour expression on his face. "As I said before," he said loudly, "I feel ill, Jennifer! I don't care if we're supposed to-"

Jennifer was bewildered. What did he mean by suddenly yelling at her? Then she saw, she realized—he was covering for them. He was interrupted as Dr. Cromwell came into the room.

"-Mr. Robinson?" The foxy face of the Doctor disturbed them, and both Jennifer and Severus looked to the doorjamb where he stood. "Is there anything the matter, Betty?"

"No, no problem," Jennifer hastily said, looking at Severus. "Well . . . well, are you coming with me or not?"

"Fine," spat the patient, practically throwing the covers up and rising. "But let me say, crème brulee is not going to be easy while you're in such a mood, Jennifer."

With this Sherlockian move of ostensibly blaming his own behavior on his Watson, Severus stormed out of the room at a considerably fast pace. Not fast enough to evade the keen eyes of the Doctor however, who asked him as he stomped out the door:

"I say, Mr. Robinson, why do you wear shoes to bed?"

Severus stopped, looked down at his feet, and then looked the Doctor straight in the eye. "In case the fire alarm goes off." He proceeded to stomp down the hallway, dragging Jennifer by the arm. "What did you tell him? He looked at me like I was going to murder him!" he declared savagely, rather louder than she expected.

"What are you talking about?" She was completely confused at this point.

"You told him I . . . why the bloody hell?" he said very loudly, as though she had responded with 'That you kissed me'. "That I kissed you? Of all the cover stories I've ever heard, that's the most idiotic! At that rate I wouldn't care if he knew I was arachnaphobic! The idea that now he thinks I imposed so much as to . . . that, Jennifer, was too much." They turned the corner at that point, and he stopped to listen. "Good. He's out of earshot now," he said softly, looking behind them. A lighthearted spark bounced in his dark eyes, and he was shaking with mirth. "That was a close one with the shoes, though. I was hoping he would not notice . . . my dear Jennifer, are you all right?"

"I . . . I believe so. I'm just . . . well . . . adrenaline rush, I think . . ." He laughed and patted her shoulder fondly. "Are we really making crème brulee?"

"Yes. Have you ever tried it?"

"No, but I've heard of it . . ."

"It's absolutely divine. You'll adore it."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Dr. Cromwell called Jennifer to his office two weeks later as she walked into the institution.

"Betty, my dear. Please close the door; this will be rather a private conversation."

The matron complied, curious and a little frightened. Although she thought Severus' caution concerning Dr. Cromwell was a bit exaggerated, her new lover of a whirlwind romance had convinced her that, to some extent, her employer and suitor was not necessarily the most estimable of men. Her main preoccupying hope was that this call had nothing to do with his confession of affection he himself had made previously!

Since he event, she had generally avoided the doctor as much as possible. Obviously, she could not completely eliminate meeting him in the halls or from submitting her daily reports to his office, but she hurried through them nervously. His every glance was beginning to make her worry—was he simply affirming his approval, or admiring her figure? When his tongue passed over his lips, what was he thinking about? Why was his hand rubbing his thigh in such a manner? Being anywhere near him made her feel all giddy in ways she never had experienced.

In direct contrast, her time with Severus was most congenial, to an understatement. He never seemed to look at her with lustful eyes, only with soft adoration and sometimes irritation when, as he put it, she was being 'particularly dense'. Never lust, and never again the hatred he had displayed in his first months. Indeed, as their relationship had blossomed, his manner greatly improved. Instead of his morose depressive behaviors, he was inquisitive and passionate; not happy in the conventional sense but content with his life and surroundings. When she asked him about it, he said that he was "probably as happy" as he "would ever be". Which, from what she gathered about his personal history, that was saying a lot on his part.

"What is this about?" she asked Dr. Cromwell, pulling herself away from thinking about her favorite patient. In response, he picked up a leaflet and showed it to her.

"Here, Betty, take a look at this."

Jennifer did look at it. There was a picture . . . a picture of Mr. Robinson. He was scowling at the camera in an expression she well knew. Below the photograph was the caption:

_MISSING: Professor Severus Snape. Dsp. May 20, 1998. Age 39. 6'1. 140lb. Wearing black wizard costume. Any information, please contact Sylvia Snape (phone number) or Minerva McGonagall (address)_

"Do you know this man?" Dr. Cromwell grinned obscenely, laying down his cigarette. "The only thing I thought surprising was the fact that he actually was named 'Severus' after all."

Jennifer realized what this meant. Mr. Robinson was going home. Possibly to a wife, if this 'Sylvia Snape' was not some other relation.

"Have you called them?" She _had_ to know.

He looked at her. "Not yet. I just got this today."

"Where?"

"Never you mind, Betty, that's none of your business."

She put her foot down. "I asked you, where? Where did you get that pamphlet?"

Surprised, the Doctor picked up his cigarette again, took a drag, and blew out again. "It was sent to every mental institution in England, for your information. Along with every other wanted notice ever issued nationwide. You've never been like this before Betty—why the sudden defiance?"

_Defiance? Not defiance. I'm just not being subservient. _"I'm not trying to be defiant, Dr. Cromwell."

He sighed. "How many times have I told you to call me Howard?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to call you Howard. It's more professional to keep it formal."

He blinked, and looked about ready to explode into a tirade. "I have to go, Doctor, see you in a bit!"

She skittered out quickly as possible, to find Severus. Mr. Snape, she knew now. Mr. Severus Snape.

_What would it be like if my name were . . . hm. Mrs. Jennifer Snape. It has a good ring to it._

_There has to be a good explanation for 'Sylvia Snape', though._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

As far as Mr. Robinson went, he was waking earlier and earlier these days, and his morning runs were longer and longer. When she arrived at the institution, though, he almost always had a pot of coffee to share with her before they had to cook for the morning. He remained absolutely inseparable from her, as always, but it was clear that he would have refused to leave if she asked him to, whereas previously he would not have cared either way.

Their conversations were more and more animated, sometimes even verging on silly. He acted relatively normal when there were others around, but when they were alone he would bestow numerous means of endearment upon her—everything from wholehearted snogging sessions to simply holding her hand, as their mutual moods demanded. He did no ask or imply for more, though Jennifer would not have denied it if he had!

Also, she discovered something that she had barely glimpsed before in his personality: his amazingly hilarious wit. He was really very funny when he tried, she noticed. However, she did also notice that he never said specifically 'I love you'; indeed, the word 'love' never entered his vocabulary, almost as though the word did not exist to him. He said any manner of other words: adore, worship, admire, and 'something akin to _that'_, but he never actually said 'love.' Jennifer did not resent this—she understood that he nevertheless loved her.

This particular morning, as she raced out to find Mr. Severus Snape (nee Robinson) she found him out running like Forrest Gump, completely complacent and obviously well practiced. He stopped when she opened the sliding door and stepped out into the dull cloudy morning.

"I would embrace you, but I fear I would make you smell quite indescribably nauseous," he said, stopping and kissing her hand reverently. Jennifer was wild about his scent after running, actually. He smelled virile, somewhat primitive, and definitely tres sexie.

"Nauseous?" she asked. "I don't mind."

"But I do." He took her hand, kissed it again with the fervor of Maximilien to his Valentine (or so Jennifer thought . . . she had moved on from Jane Austen to The Count of Monte Cristo lately) and dashed inside. "I shall be merely thirty seconds," he called, and slipped through the door of the nearest loo.

Indeed, just as Jennifer sighed of disappointment for not getting her morning kiss yet, he emerged again, hair neatly combed and set straight, to sweep her into his arms.

The truly amazing part about it was that he looked as though he had changed his clothes—though that was virtually impossible in the five seconds he had spent dressing himself up again. He was wearing the same black shirt and dark denim, but all the sweat spots had been disappeared, and he even smelled freshly laundered. Pressing her head into his chest, he smelled sweet and clean—with nary a whiff of the stifling cologne that the Doctor wore.

"I can't imagine how you got so clean so fast; you must use magic," she joked.

Silent amusement shook his chest. "You could say that."

His tone scared her, as though he was being literal. She turned her head up in askance, wondering . . . she had no idea what she expected.

He had his eyes ready to meet her, considering her, attempting to calculate her potential thoughts. Then, suddenly, he drew his arms from around her and, carefully, withdrew the polished stick he liked to carry out of his sleeve.

"I pray this won't scare you," he said solemnly. "And I swear . . . I swear you won't be hallucinating."

She did not see anything out of the ordinary yet, so she just watched. He raised his hand slowly, pointing the stick away from them both at an unsuspecting tree. "Watch now," he said carefully, and suddenly, a strange and fantastic gray dust exploded from the end forming into a vaporous figure. It took a few seconds to fully configure, but the materialized manifestation soon showed itself to be an animal.

Not a cat. Not a bird. Not a doe.

A stallion. It looked at them for a moment . . . it seemed to be raising an eyebrow in observation of the two solid humans . . . and then it began to nibble at the grass.

Severus' eyes got wide at this, emulating Jennifer's astonishment. "A horse?" he gasped, almost disgusted. "I thought it must have changed . . . but couldn't it have changed into anything but a _horse_? For crying out loud . . ."

Hearing itself talked about, the horse meandered over to the pair and circled them, slowly. Finally reconciling with himself, Severus gave a sharp laugh and patted the nose of the horse. At that, it vanished into thin air.

"So, Jennifer, what do you think?"

She had to ponder a moment before declaring what she thought. Her initial reaction had been terror, true, but at seeing how gentle the . . . the spirit, she could think of it no other way . . . had been, she had given way to admiration. "It was beautiful," she said simply. "Like you."

A peppermint-sweet smile graced his face, although he did glare as he whipped his hair scornfully over his face. The veil did not hide his slight delightful tinge of color on his cheeks. His ostensible aversion to compliments really was cute, especially since she knew he really enjoyed them.

"So, do you understand what that was?"

"Not really. Does it matter?"

"Somewhat." He shrugged. "I am magic. In the literal sense. I taught at a school for witches and wizards, I lived with them all my life. Then they destroyed my life. It is surprising that I've scorned your sort all my years, yet your sort has been the only revival I needed to be rejuvenated again."

"So . . . wait." She had to think about this, so she settled down on the grass. He followed suit. "You aren't just exaggerating . . . you aren't just a magician like the normal kind of magician? You . . . do other magic?"

"Yes." He paused. "Is that scaring you?"

She shook her head. "Not really . . . you never have seemed exactly like everyone else."

He snorted. "I should hope not, to you! But, you see, I have a good deal of explaining I ought to do."

So, in short, he related the sad story of his life, from as early as he could remember until the day she picked him up in front of Lily Evans' old house. He never, she noticed, mentioned his last name.

Some of it was crazy. Some of it she oughtn't have believed. But she did, for some strange reason, his vivid descriptions of broom flying (though he described it as being as common as driving a car) and potions making and wand waving were all too unreal. But she believed him nonetheless.

Finally, he got to the point from which she knew the rest. "I was frankly shocked that anyone would . . . well . . . try and take care of me. For all my life, I was determined to be an independent individual. I had to be. It was the only way I could survive. Oh, Jennifer, you aren't crying, dear?"

She was.

"You've been through so much," she whispered, throwing her arms around his neck with all the generosity of her nature. "I can't believe anyone could . . . so many people kill themselves for less! I wouldn't have been so brave! I just couldn't!"

"Shush, I'm no martyr," he replied crisply.

"No, I'm not saying that, but . . . you know, the lady who inhabited your room before you came . . . she killed herself the morning that I found you. And she had absolutely no reason!"

"Merlin! How morbid! What was her name?"

"Marybelle something or other."

He frowned, taking his arm around Jennifer in that subtle way that she had grown to love. "That's just terrible. I don't like the idea that my serendipity would have been so disastrous to someone else."

"Serendipity?"

"It's a restaurant in New York."

"That makes no sense," she replied laughing a bit through her tears. Then, wonderingly, she looked at him. "Why aren't you crying, Severus? Why aren't you crying every single minute of every day? It seems you would deserve such a means of consolation . . ."

"I've done my tears enough, my dear. And there's no need to cry over me. I am a murderer, and that will weigh on my mind for the rest of my life. However . . . I found you in the midst of my desolation, and that makes up for everything."

It was more touching to hear this from the broken, brittle man than anything said by Mr. Darcy, the Count of Monte Cristo, or even Humphrey Bogart. The idea of such reality overpassing fantasy was so astounding that it brought fresh tears from Jennifer. Understanding more than she thought he did, he drew her into a consoling embrace to share a very salty kiss.

Once she was somewhat more composed, she remembered the pamphlet found by Dr. Cromwell. They were still sitting outside on the lawn, in complete silence, when she decided to bring it up.

"By the way," she asked timidly, "Who . . . who is Sylvia? You didn't mention her in your story, so I suppose she wasn't important, but . . ."

"Sylvia?" He was suddenly rigid. "She's my younger sister. Why . . . how . . ." He paused for a moment, then exclaimed: "She's been to see me?"

"No, actually."

"Then how do you know about her? I vowed never to see her again; she's a disgraceful child, having a child when she did not even have a steady job, living purely for drink and dancing . . ."

"Well, I don't know anything more than her name," admitted Jennifer. "You see, the Doctor showed me something this morning that I'm not sure I liked . . . a 'missing' notice, with you on it. Severus Snape. Please send information to Sylvia Snape and Mary McDonald. That sort of thing."

"Really? Are you sure it wasn't a 'wanted' notice? Just a 'missing' notice?"

"Just 'missing.'"

He closed his eyes, nestling his head in the crook of her neck. "I don't want to go back to them, still."

"Well, what are we going to do?"

"We." He looked at her. "You still want it to be 'we'? Despite everything?"

"Naturally. Do you think I would just abandon you, Severus? I'm not like your wizard friends. I'm not like Lily Evans. I'm me, and I love you."

With an exclamation of joy, he hugged her tightly. His actions spoke louder than any words.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .


	8. Chapter 8

_(Here's the last chapter . . there will be an epilogue after this . . . that will be long and fluffy, however! Enjoy!)_

**Chapter 8 **

Severus nicked over to Dr. Cromwell's office as soon as he could escape from the kitchen, sneaking away while he employed Jennifer to find the garlic-press—a futile task, as he had the kitchen's only one in his pocket. She was sure to make a dreadful mess in the kitchen, sure, but she would remain thus safely occupied while he made this highly necessary visit.

The good Doctor was sitting at his desk, Severus saw through the reinforced glass window, about five cigarette stubs in the ashtray before him and a look of cold fire in his stark-blue eyes. _This is probably a suicide mission, _Severus thought, _but since when has that ever stopped me? _

He touched the doorknob, but found it locked. Steadily, calmly, he tapped on it with his wand, whispered a spell, and entered the room.

The doctor was noticeably startled, and stood up straight when Severus walked into his office with a cavalier manner.

"That door was locked! I tried it three times!" he exclaimed, eyes glowering. He dashed down his sixth stub into the dish, angry.

"It was not to me," Severus said, and calmly advanced on the doctor as if it were the most common thing in the world.

Shaking his head, the Doctor sat down again, but kept a keen eye on the patient. "What are you doing in here, Mr. Robinson? I'm incredibly busy."

"I heard this morning that you received a 'missing' notice for me, with an address upon it?"

The Doctor nodded hurriedly, beginning to rummage through his desk. He soon brought out the pamphlet, but did not show it to the patient.

"Yes, here it is."

Snape looked at him. "Have you called the number?"

The Doctor pondered, then shook his head no. "I . . . I was going to do so."

"If you have thus not, may I impose upon you to borrow your telephone?"

Examining the patient from afar, the Doctor shook his head. "Patients are not allowed any outside contact via letters or telephone," the man said, a sick smile appearing on his lips.

The patient scowled in return. "What kind of bloody rule is that?" he demanded hotly. "What do you call going to the market every day? Doctor, I do believe that you are playing games with me. Games, I might point out, which are ultimately useless."

The Doctor merely stared at him, as though he had started to bark like a chihuahua and run around in circles.

"Please, Doctor, I'm even being civil. Let me call my sister's number. That's all I ask. Then I will leave you to your work."

In reply, the Doctor swiveled his chair until he could easily look out the window. "Why now?" he posed. "Why do you want to call your sister now, after all this time? Didn't you think to search for her number before, even if you did not know it by memory?"

"I had no idea she even lived in England. Last I had heard of her, she moved to America, and I never thought she came back." Snape was obviously on his guard, and was revealing only the barest of facts. _Never mind the fact that she was also a squib . . . a disgrace to me and the family . . . and I really wanted no association with her at all._

"Who's the other woman, then, the one with the address in Scotland? Minerva McGonagall?"

"An aunt of sorts."

"Why don't you want to call her?"

"She has no telephone. She's . . . old-fashioned, to put it plainly."

"Hm." The Doctor swiveled back to face Snape. "Well," he said shortly, "You will be allowed to contact her when you have received a clean bill of mental health from me."

"I believe I can prove that now I am completely sane, Doctor. Let me prove myself."

The Doctor shook his head. "It is good that you have reached this point, Mr. Snape. However, I would prefer that we wait a month—then we shall test you thoroughly. And, if you pass with satisfactory grades, you should be allowed to contact your family."

Snape calculated. "Why a month?"

"Why not? I'm the Doctor."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Two weeks later, Dr. Cromwell called Desmonda Yitter into his office.

"Desi, my dear, come in and make yourself comfortable."

A crotchety older woman of perhaps seventy, who had worked at the institution from the day it was built in the 1940s (long before _he_ had arrived and turned it into a strictly-Christian environment) shrugged and scowled. "I'm never comfortable, young man, not these days I ain't. My arthritis alone makes me a right bitter woman, and I kin barely write straight 'cause of it. My back does me more complaining than a sailor's peg-leg, too, and my indigestion-"

He interrupted her by smugly bringing forward a chair.

"How cum you get all the good chairs in yer office?" She sat down anyways, feebly muttering about 'that darn Mr. Robinson's cooking getting too rich', and 'but he ought'a make that creem brulay again, that was darned good'.

Dr. Cromwell cringed at the mention of his least favorite patient, but just barely noticeably. The old woman's eyesight was bad, anyways, so she did not see.

"Desi, dear, the reason I called you in today was for the simple reason that I will be gone this weekend, leaving tonight and I'll be back on Sunday. An acquaintance of mine has suggested I go to visit him in London, and since things have been rather smooth lately, I thought it would be opportune for me to take a holiday. I trust that you, as always, will be able to manage?"

That was completely a ridiculous question for anyone who knew Desmonda Yitter. Although the only staff member who claimed to be 'jes plain old English Anglican' as opposed to participating in the unnamed sect that Dr. Cromwell headed, she had a good head on her shoulders and a strong will to match. She had complied with the change in management of the institution from her father (who died) to Dr. Cromwell easily, but she still was the head matron of the five nurses who worked in the institution. She could be a bit cantankerous at her worst, but she never meant any harm, though until Betty's little display two weeks before she had been the only one who ever was against changes in the structure of the institution, the only one who ever questioned the Doctor. He had been able to deal with her perfectly well, however, for many reasons.

"What day is it today?"

"Friday."

"Well, 'course, doctor. I've never failed to keep things well before."

"Undoubtedly, my dear, undoubtedly," he reassured her. "I do have one special request—while I'm away, I would appreciate if you kept Betty and Mr. Robinson under your watchful eye. Make sure they do not go into the yard together; Mr. Robinson's allergies are terrific, and we don't want him to get ill. Also, don't let Betty stay overtime; she's been working far too hard and needs to go home right at seven. Do you comprehend?"

The matron sniffled, nodded in understanding, and slouched out of the room at her dismissal.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"I'm going to stay over tonight, Severus."

"Why, because our wonderful Doctor Cromwell will be going out of town?"

"That's the idea."

They were on the balcony of the Recreation Room, trying not to stand too close together while in the eye vicinity of other people. Jennifer closed her eyes and held her arms to either side, letting the breeze sweep through her hair and across her fingers. She tried to remember how it felt when she was in New Zealand visiting her friend Chelsea from secondary school. Standing on the beautiful Piha Beach at Waitakere felt exactly like this.

Their month anniversary had passed some days ago, though Jennifer was the only one who took note of it. Severus, she knew, was not the sort who kept track of the days when he was enjoying something, rather the kind who would count them later when he had lost it and had filled with regret.

"That might be seen as . . . well, scandalous by those who are here," he suggested calculatingly. "I'm not certain that it might not get back to him."

"Not if done properly, it won't."

He nudged her in the stomach with the back of his hand, his fingers lingering just slightly too long against her to be platonic.

"Aren't you the cunning one," he half complimented, half teased. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'll say 'good night!' to Desmonda and pick up my keys and purse from the coat-room, and she won't think twice about it."

"Great Scott, I daresay it seems I've had some good influence upon you." He sounded genuinely pleased, and she giggled. "Although," he suggested carefully, "This does bring me to the question of what . . . what you imply by wanting to spend the night here. In my room, I presume."

"Yes." She did not know exactly what he meant, but . . .

"You . . . you think we ought to take our relationship to what is so often described as 'the next step'?"

"Oh." She had not been thinking of that at all. The idea of just being with him all night was what she thought of . . . falling asleep on each others' shoulders, hands intertwined, gazing out the window at the moon . . . however, she had been entertaining the idea since well . . . since at least the beginning of their better relationship, for sure, probably longer though . . .

"I'm not saying we have to, at all; I merely want to know if that was what was on _your_ mind."

"No, actually." She turned to him, smiling widely. "But I don't mind the idea."

He did not seem sure how to reply. Then, nodding, he agreed. "We aren't just soppy teenagers, after all." He looked at her pointedly again. "But, you know, nothing's final. If you end up not wanting to . . ."

"No, I want to." She was decided on that point. "That is, if you want to." She could not tell if he was mutual on the subject.

"I haven't done so since I was in my early twenties," he admitted, "So I won't be any good, but . . ."

"Oh, shush, ducky, I've never done it, I won't know whether you're good or not!"

He grinned at her, looking quite relieved. "Well, you're the reader of all the romance novels. I'm sure you're knowledgeable in _some _way."

"Not _those_ kinds of novels! They aren't my sort!"

"All the better, all the better."

They did not refer to their plans afterwards all day, but they were both eager, and it stayed near the forefront of their minds nonetheless.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Dr. Cromwell was gone for the weekend. He had taken the bus to the train station, and he would not be back for two full days.

Desmonda Yitter, though half-blind at her ripe age of 77 watched Jennifer Beeton as the nurse practically pranced to the cloakroom at the end of the day.

"I'm going off, ducky. Will you be watching for Sense and Sensibility tonight on channel 1? I can't wait to see Alan Rickman, there's something about that man that just sends shivers up my spine!"

"I probably will, dear. Now before you go, Betty, come over here, I want to speak to you."

Feeling a lump in her throat, Jennifer walked over to the older woman, bent over her galoshes in the process of fastening them.

"What is it, Desi?"

"Our Dr. Cromwell said something very peculiar to me today before he left. He wanted me to make sure you left right on time, and make sure you didn't stay with yer Mr. Robinson any longer than you ought. Now why would he ask me that?"

Jennifer felt her eyes fall to her feet. She thought a moment, considering what might happen if she told Mrs. Yitter the truth about her and Severus. _Well, I've always noticed that she does not really think as highly of Dr. Cromwell as everyone else . . . tells him off sometimes, too. She's not afraid of him, and I don't think she likes him. Therefore, it wouldn't be in her best interest to tell him. _

"Well, Desi, the thing is . . . well, Severus and I are in love."

A wide smile erupted on the old woman's withered face, and she sighed. "Ah, and the Doctor don't take kindly to the idea of being out of the way, so he can't watch and make sure you don't . . . do anything that _he_ wants to do to you."

"You know?" She thought it best not to elaborate, but it seemed that Mrs. Yitter knew about the Doctor's fascination with her.

"Who doesn't know!" crowed the old woman. "Dearie, haven't you seen the way he looks at you? It's downright indecent, I always have said, but does anyone listen to me? No, they don't, they just think, 'oh, old Desi don't know anythin' and then they don't realize that I'm rather sharp at my age, though I do got arthritis and a bad back and all the rest of it."

Jennifer was so surprised at this onslaught that she felt rather embarrassed. "Well, what do I do about it?"

"Make like a candle and go steam up your good Mr. Robinson, dearie, 'cause there's no way in hell I'm about to let you marry that bastard who calls himself a doctor. Much less have sex with him."

So saying, she waved away the very astonished Jennifer with a smile and a wink, finding the audacity to call after the younger woman: "Be sure to bring something on the more fun side to entertain him, y'know! And rest assured, I won't be coming in yer Mr. Robinson's room any time tonight or the next!"

Jennifer had laughed at this, and realized that she was not as bad a judge a character as she had once thought.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Thus unhindered, Jennifer made her way up to Severus' room. The door was open, and she saw Severus carefully sorting through a bundle of unmatched socks, trying to make sense of the untidy roll. Entering, she realized that he was packing—not a lot, just one night's worth of clothes.

"I believe it would be easier if we went to your house, perhaps," he suggested carefully, "Easier at least from your standpoint. You go on ahead home, and I'll come out the window. I don't know why I didn't think of that earlier. This place is . . . a hospital. Nothing romantic about that, especially the bed that's no better than a block of wood."

"True," agreed Jennifer, and she quickly complied with the plan.

Although, of course, she did get a strange look from Mrs. Yitter, but she just gave the old woman a sly wink as she left, and her superior probably got a good idea of the goings-ons.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

They did actually end up watching Sense and Sensibility on channel 1 that night, at least for a little while. It was still light out when they finally were situated in Jennifer's cozy living-room, so she found some ice-cream in the freezer and they watched the telly for an hour or so. Severus made sly comments about the movie continually, never able to just shut up and enjoy it, but he apologized for this vice in advance, and she actually realized his comments were pertinent and often very funny.

After the ice cream was completely gone—Jennifer found herself relieved that Severus had been the one to eat most of it—a sense of restlessness changed the mood. Throwing some sort of spell at the radio, Severus turned on a slow 30s jazz station, something Jennifer typically did not listen to, and deposited his wand on the mantel.

They just looked at each other for a few minutes, not sure how to proceed. It seemed almost a bit silly; Jennifer felt like she should know how to go about it, and Severus looked like he ought to know just as well, but they were awkward initially. Then, in a streak of boldness, she tugged at her hairpin and let a cascade of brunette curls fall.

The simple gesture was bolstering to both their confidences, and Severus replied by taking his dark jacket off, laying it neatly on the floor beside him. Her response was to begin pressing the buttons of her white lacy blouse through their eyelets, and Severus did the same with his green plaid shirt.

Her shoes. His shoes.

Her tights. His socks.

Her skirt. His pants.

Her bottoms. His bottoms.

Her brassiere.

And they were both completely natural before each other, admiring each other.

The initiative came from Severus this time, but beyond this knowledge, you need to learn to mind your own business. (And so do I.)

Two hours (or so) passed, and even though the lovers had exhausted themselves slowly, at this point they were both tired and happy. Instead of being estranged by their actions, they felt closer than ever. Safer than ever.

Until the phone rang.

"I don't want to answer," she whispered, pulling herself further under the covers. They had eventually made it to bed, somehow or another.

As her ear was pressing against his chest, she could almost hear his pulse quicken.

"No, you really ought to."

"I don't think it could be anything-"

"At this hour? No, go answer it."

So, sleepily, she reached over to the table and lifted the receiver. "Hullo?"

"Betty?"

It was Dr. Cromwell. Nervously, Jennifer pulled the receiver so that both she and Severus could hear.

"What are you doing right now?"

"Oh . . . well, I was just watching Sense and Sensibility, and I fell asleep in front of the telly."

"Is that all?"

Now she felt irritated. "Yes, doctor, that is all."

"It's Howard, dammit."

"Well, 'Howard, dammit,' I'm tired and I want to go to sleep."

Snape, at this, turned his head into the pillow and burst into muffled laughter.

"That was not amusing, Betty."

"Well, your waking me up isn't either. Good night, doctor."

So saying, she slammed the phone down dramatically. Severus caught her eye as he peeked at her from behind the curtain of his hair, and they burst out laughing again.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Well, Mr. Snape, it seems that you have been very deceiving to us here at this institute. You never gave us your real name, you told us you had no living relatives."

_And, yes, both Jennifer and I gave you bullshit when you discovered us together last night. _

Their first night together—Jennifer and Severus--went fortunately unhindered, true. However, afterwards they met again in the same way—and met a very furious Dr. Cromwell, who was waiting for his Betty to come home in her very own living-room with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses. Snape had no idea what might have happened to Jennifer if he had not been there . . . but, therein, of course, laid the problem. Now Dr. Cromwell was livid. He faced Snape in his office, glaring and tearing unconsciously at his hair.

_You look like the overly-worried father rather than the slighted lover, though, _Snape jeered in his mind._ I would know._

"Of course, part of the problem was your illness, granted, but still . . . it gives us something to think about. You have not, of course, been very compliant in trying to help us solve your psychological problems." The Doctor was pacing at this point, and Snape was wondering why he even bothered to stay in here to watch the man.

"I don't have problems anymore, Doctor." _Because I didn't really have many in the first place._

Here the Doctor swerved his chair in such a manner that he looked Snape directly in the eye. "No, Mr. Snape, you most definitely do. You think you have magic powers, but you're not magic! There is no such thing! Your world is only in your head, you madman! No one cares for you; you're not anything to anybody! Don't you think, if they cared, they would have searched and found you by now? It's been over a year since you disappeared! You're so ill in the head you've come to imagine that you can go out in the world and be a normal man, but you can't! There's nothing for you beyond these walls, Mr. Snape!"

Snape mulled over this for a moment, then his eyes widened in disbelief as Cromwell tore up the 'missing' notice, and let the pieces fall upon the floor, one by one.

"Dr. Cromwell, I really do not appreciate-" he began, his voice infused with suppressed anger, but the Doctor interrupted.

"-Cease your words, filthy pagan!" exclaimed the doctor violently. He drew a large tome from his drawer and placed it in front of him, as a sort of means of protection. It was evidentially a bible. "You can't have my woman!" he snarled, desperately. "You care nothing for her; you know nothing about her. You can't. Your mind is filthy, disgusting, cunning, sly, and gluttonous! It is not coherent! You can't live the way you think you can—you are not normal! You'll die no matter what you do or say, since there is such an absence of the holy spirit in your body, you bloody heathen! You're a blemish to this Christian institution, Mr. Snape, and it's only because of my own good spirit that I let you stay, by showing my excess of mercy! You are insane, more insane than anyone else in this facility—and you cannot have my woman!"

Snape glared in return. "_Your_ woman? Jove, you are so blind. Anyone who's even a half-baked imbecile can tell that, even if she was not affectionate towards me, she would never be _yours. _To own, like a slave. To corrupt, like a child. To possess, demean, damage, wreck, or torture like a toy. To throw out of a window when she metaphorically bites your hand, like a dog. Because, you see, one can never own another human being in entirety—especially in this damnable free country of England. I do not believe you completely understand that, Doctor.

Taking up the bible in his hands, the Doctor stood up and walked over to the man who so defiantly tiraded before him.

"Besides," went on Snape, coldly, "Your talk of being a heathen, a damnable scoundrel, a bastard of the Third Riech, or whatever else you may choose to call me will not affect me. I am not scared of what the Son of God, God, or anyone else may do to me. There is no God."

Dr. Cromwell did not seem to be terribly moved by this, and perched himself on the corner of his desk to watch the patient. Both men were more than heavily suspicious of each other, and each made his moves slowly and deliberately.

"There is no God," Snape repeated snarling, stepping away from the doctor—not retreating to the door, but keeping a healthy distance. "Dr. Cromwell, not t be disrespectful, but you can't force 'God' to always be of your opinion, anyways. By what human right would you think yourself so superior to all others, by what divine right were you ordained 'better'? Simply because you think yourself a fearless crusader for an entity you've never even seen or heard? For, after all," he continued, "I'm sure you cannot really logically pinpoint any hour, date, or memory where you actually have heard God or seen God. And, you will understand, 'faith' is a sickening concept, when you think about it deeply. I've put my faith in many men who were gods in their own right, and it has ruined me. I did once put my faith in God, I will admit—but I was a fool. "

"He failed you because of your uncouthness, your defiance, your lack of love for him!"

Snape had to laugh at that. "What are you trying to do exactly, Doctor Cromwell?" He pronounced every syllable with such prominence that the Doctor seemed a bit taken aback at his confidence. "Are you trying your hand at converting an old tired soul—or trying to scare an old tired soul from converting?"

"I am attempting to show you your idiocy, Mr. Snape!"

"My idiocy?" Again, Snape took the initiative to laugh in the man's face. "You sir, I think, disrespectfully, are the idiot." He thought a moment, then recanted, "No, actually, I shall give credit where credit is due—you're brilliant, doctor, to a degree—but your level of perception is dead dull. The tangible is the only way to base one's beliefs. For instance, I believed that I truly was insane, just because you now told me so, I would be no better than you, who believe in a fancy elongated fairy tale about an invisible omnipotent entity."

Lips pouting, Dr. Cromwell's fingers found a ribbon bookmark poking its head out of the pages of the Bible, and he stroked it for comfort.

"The Bible is no fairy tale, Mr. Snape; it is the culmination of a perfect God's words through the tales of his great works."

"If there was truly a god, he would not be perfect, for perfection—and justice, for that matter--is only relative to whomever is judging it."

He seemed to have hit the Doctor's argument's underbelly, for the Doctor had nothing to add to that statement.

"And I have a question for you, Doctor—where is the proof? Where is the proof that Jesus made a blind man see, cured lepers, and taught a cripple to walk again? Where is the proof that the Red Sea parted before Moses? Where is the proof that a burning bush talked to the same man, and where is the proof that Moses actually followed the guidance of such a bush? Where I come from, a burning bush that could speak would be regarded as dark magic, and in your world a cheap parlor trick. What man in his right mind would carry out the order to kill his own son, orders from a creature he could not even see or rightfully love without fear? And, on the reverse side, what truly caring, loving God would tell a man to kill his son, then say to the effect of 'oh, I was just joshing you' afterwards? What truly caring, loving God would make his people walk around the desert for forty years, occasionally dropping some manna and pigeons upon them so they didn't starve? What truly caring, loving God would encourage his so-called 'chosen people' to be superior to the Philistines, the followers of Baal, and everyone else, if, supposedly, he 'loves every man equally as his child'? The God of the Bible is discriminatory, intolerant, unjust, unloving, and has a sadistic sense of humor that is not flattering to the so-called 'perfect' being image. A reasonable man can only conclude, thus, that the Bible lacks consistency, continuity, and should only be read for the sake of understanding the culture and religion of the ancients, regarded as only the Epic of Gilgamesh or the Greek myths are regarded—as superficial and improbable, evidence only of the misguided thoughts of generations of deluded men and women—men and women who, by modern day standards, would be considered mad."

This long-winded soliloquy to atheism seemed to make Dr. Cromwell think deeply. His eyes glistened as though he had gained a new enlightenment, as though he had reached a new epiphany, and his face shone as though he had seen shapes and color after years of blindness.

Severus was almost surprised. Had he made a difference in this man's life, a difference so great that it might even have cured him of his obsessive religious observance, a difference-

He did not have time to finish his wondering. In a flash, Dr. Cromwell opened his Bible—which revealed itself to be hollow—and drew a ready syringe. Before Snape could even think of reacting, the Doctor reached to stab it into his patient's jugular vein.

Snape staggered with the combined effect of the pain and the rush of substance into his bloodstream, and he fell to the floor. For a brief moment, he reflected that it was rather a deja-vu of his encounter with Voldemort and Nagini . . . but within thirty seconds he could think no more.


	9. Chapter 9 and Epilogue

_Hm. I do believe I might have lost a few readers with the last chapter, wherein Snape is extolling atheism's virtues. I know some of you are very indignant. Well, I want you to notice, Jennifer is religious too--more deeply and more genuinely than Dr. Cromwell. That is the catch to this story, what separates it from much of the radical work that is out there._

_I am not anti religion. The point of this story is to encourage tolerance, which I believe will become more clear in the next chapter. I value religion for the impact it has had on society--without it, we should not have many just laws, or the idea of social equality. However, I do not agree with all aspects of every religion, which I believe is healthy. I'm not one of those evil atheists, and I'm not looking to fdebate. On the contrary, my point is that people of any extreme should be mellowed. No one will say that Muslim extremists have not gone too far in this day and age, I think. Sometimes people refuse to believe that there are extremists of every branch, though, who are conceited enough to believe that they have the divine mission of converting everyone else or bring them to death (this being metaphorical or literal depending on how serious they are). Again, I must say, I'm not anti religion. I just think it is growing more and more obsolete with the advancement of society, though I will confirm my opinion that a need for universal morality has not (and will not) diminish._

_Besides, just as I don't agree with a lot (understatement) of what Dr. Cromwell thinks and says, I don't agree with everything Snape does or says. It's a story, and I'm writing the characters as they occur to me. _

_Thanks for bearing with me. Hope this was an enjoyable tale . . ._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"Severus? Severus? Are you all right?"

Snape felt a soft hand on his forehead, and a biting pain in his neck. As he tried to sit up, his mind went foggy. He attempted to remember why his throat hurt so much . . . why his body felt heavy as lead and dead as a washed-up whale . . . why his arms refused to move, and why the circulation had been cut off from them.

"Severus? Ducky?"

The first name that came to mind, he whispered aloud. "Nagini." He tried to make sense of his situation. His throat hurt so badly, he felt it was bleeding, he felt every bit of blood in his body was seeping out of him through every pore in his skin, and he felt as though every pore was clogged with a needle-thin razor, to the point where it hurt with every breath.

"Severus, ducky, please talk to me."

Then he remembered what Nagini was. A snake. A snake had bit him. A snake was responsible for this . . . its venom was seeping through his body, his brain . . .

"It was Nagini. Nagini did it." Then something else came to the forefront of his mind, something he felt he had forgotten to say or do. "Potter . . ." he murmured, "Tell Potter that his mother loved him, Jennifer loved him more than anyone else on earth . . . tell Potter how lucky he was to have that; my mother never cared for anyone but herself . . . Jennifer loved him so much . . . and tell him I loved Jennifer, that was why I did it . . . I have been Dumbledore's man through and through since Jennifer died, since I just as well killed her by relaying the prophecy to Voldemort. . . oh Merlin! I missed her so terribly all my life . . . but I was double-crossing Voldemort all the while, and I protected Potter throughout his life when people tried to kill him . . . I had to repay the debt that James had over me for saving my life . . . and I had to protect him for Jennifer . . . Dumbledore, though, he needs Potter to know this especially: Potter must die. Some of Voldemort's soul is in him, and Voldemort will never be completely vanquished if Potter does not die. I protected Jennifer's son all his life, only to be slaughtered like a pig for Dumbledore's great and grand ideals . . ."

He was conscious of some soft arm cradling him, of wet drops falling on his face, of a gentle dampness at the corner of his mouth, but all of these failed to bring him to complete reality.

Then a fierce pain seized him, and he cried out in agony. "I'm going to be dead in a moment!" he shrieked with urgency. "Leave me alone! Curse the bloody arse who left me here! Please, who are you who touches me? No matter, whoever you are, don't allow Voldemort to win the war . . . if you do, all the world will succumb to his tyranny . . . It cannot be . . . it cannot be . . ."

"Severus, it's Jennifer."

"Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer. Pretty Jennifer." He could see her face; it was wreathed in light, and in another moment it was gone. "You must be an angel. May I go to hell for the deeds I have done? I think heaven is too hot to hold me . . . there's no retribution or sanction there . . ."

"Severus, please listen . . . you're not well, you're-"

His stomach turned, and forced anger to erupt uncontrollably from his bosom. "Why, then, kill me!" he screamed, kicking and clawing, but never reaching her, never touching anything but thick fabric. "Kill me!" he demanded again, eyes open, blinking furiously. "This blackness is all too horrible! The world is crumbling . . . I see the fabled Armageddon, only it has nothing to do with the return of Jesus . . . oh have mercy, slay me!"

Jennifer was horrified by his raving. She tried to make some sense over what he was saying, but the only aspects she could recognize were that, in his confused version of reality, he was reliving the events of a year ago, when he was almost killed by that dark magic 'death-eater'. An hour later, he was silent, exhausted and to some degree asleep.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

She had noticed that he had not returned that night when he left her there in the kitchen, searching for the elusive garlic press. Dinner was ready by that time, fortunately—he had left with practically everything done except the salad—and she was able to serve everyone before going on a search for him. To her shock, she found him being carried to his room by a very drained-looking Dr. Cromwell, who reported that Mr. Snape had experienced a fit, and needed someone to look after him. Her lover was donned in an old duck canvas strait-jacket. For years later, she remembered that scene with horror.

He had been more stark raving mad than she had ever seen him—including the day he first came to the institution—for the duration of twenty-six hours. During that time, she had neither slept nor bathed, only taking time to eat obsessively when Dr. Cromwell brought her meals. The rest of her concentration had been devoted to Severus, but he had not shown himself for the better the entire time.

Her eyes had become watery more than once in watching him. She wanted to remove the strait-jacket which so shocked her, that looked so foreign on his limp body—but the Doctor said no, and she had to obey. She wondered how the man had the callousness to sleep when one of his patients was so ill, but he claimed that since _he_ had nothing on his conscience, there was no need to worry. He said, too, that what had happened to Severus was just what the man deserved-- "Betty, he's an atheist, and a terrible one at that. He's been smitten by God; there will be proof of that soon, just you wait."

She could not believe that a man so unreasonably tortured by God could be faced with yet more agony, but she resolved there would be one good thing out of it for him—she would be there for him when he awoke. Atheism or no atheism. _There is no reason to think him any the worse just because he believes in something different. He's wrong, of course, but I'm sure it's just his way of dealing with his terrible life—believing that there's no one out there watching over him, because he can't understand that a God who cared would let things happen to him like this. But he will come to understand, soon—God cares about him, for God brought him to me. And I love him. _

The Doctor had stuffed Desmonda and one of the other nurses into the kitchen, and the results were tolerably good, though nothing like Severus was capable of creating. Jennifer finished her bowl of pudding quickly, avoided the vegetables that Severus would have nagged her to eat, and picked at her tasteless pasta alfredo. The only sounds in the room besides that of her fork and plate were the slight beeps that occasionally were emitted from the IV monitor that dripped a nutrition solution into the lax body of the patient, so that Severus would not starve while in a state of inability. The sight of his eyes—now closed with exhaustion—was so saddening to her that she could not look at him.

That is, until a lazy motion accosted her vision, and she turned her head up to see. He had opened his eyes again, and there was a definite look of—well, sanity—in his non-dilated pupils and focused glancing around the room. In a rational attempt to rise, he lifted his head, but found himself too tired, and he fell again upon the pillow.

Jennifer stood eagerly, advancing upon him.

"Severus?"

He turned to look at her and glared feebly. "What's going on? Why am I bound up like a wild animal? It's not like I'm a werewolf or something."

She could not reply at first, instead walking to the window and opening the curtains to admit a small stream of light. It was the second morning she had seen since Severus had fallen so desperately ill, and the sight of it made her feel very miserably tired. The newborn light streamed through, a silver glow against the dim lights of the sickroom.

"Jennifer, what's been happening? I demand an explanation."

Stepping cautiously to his side, she put on her best smile. "You're . . . in a strait-jacket. Doctor's orders."

"What the blazes?" he boomed, all traces of sleepiness disappeared. He tried to sit up again, and got much farther this time, though he was no sooner upright than exhaustion seized him, and he fell back once more.

The silence which followed was eerie as Severus tried to think.

"I shouldn't have shouted. My dear Jennifer, you look about as terrible as a Buddha faced with a bible. What has been . . . oh, merlin, did I try and hurt you? Is that why I'm like this?"

"Not I, thank God."

"That is comforting, but not very enlightening. What did I do to come to this?"

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Nothing. My last impression is of Dr. Cromwell—is he here?"

"No, ducky, he's in _bed_." Her irk at this fact was evident in her tone, which, though foreign to her character, was utterly more realistic than her common undying patience.

If he had been more well, he would have commended her usage of obvious italics in her voice, but he had to focus on just one thing at the present. "Well, the last thing I remember is that he stabbed me in the neck with a syringe."

At this, she looked intensely at him.

"My dear, do you not believe me?"

She did not want to suggest that she doubted him, but she saw no other alternative. Since the doctor had definitely uncovered their relationship by his inopportune visit to her house, he had been very polite, and extraordinarily not angry. He had given up on her sportingly, as she saw, and wished her the best of luck with Mr. Snape. Now, Severus' accusation seemed preposterous. A week ago she might have been quicker to believe it . . . but now she doubted, especially after his hours and hours of hallucinating and insane raving.

Her uncertainty showed in her face, evidentially, for he scoffed. "No, Jennifer, I am not making this up. Why would I?"

She shook her head in silence.

"Why do you not believe me?" His tone was pained, now, and on the verge of poisonous. "Have I ever lied to you?"

"The Doctor said he just gave you a sedative when you attempted to strangle him," Jennifer replied softly.

"And you take his word as truth? Why, that cock and bull story wouldn't convince-"

But he stopped his protestation when he clearly saw that she had been convinced.

"Well, Jennifer," he said coldly, "You're no better than Lily. Abandon me when I need you most, why don't you?" His voice changed a bit, as he tried to bite back tears . . . his voice constricted until he sounded almost cavalier. "It's all right, I suppose . . . it's not your fault. It's fate. I just wish we hadn't grown so . . . may I venture to say . . . close. I daresay I must have seemed insane to you all along. It was probably one of the only allures I had to you, actually. Maybe, if I am lucky, I _will_ actually go mad after this . . . at least my wounds would be stopped up with tar."

Jennifer's heart tore as he said this, and she saw–despite his rather light tone—he was nevertheless heartbroken as well.

"Maybe-" she began to say, but, opportunely, Doctor Cromwell stepped into the room, another syringe cocked in his hand.

"Up, Betty," he insisted, "It's time for his next sedative dose. Has he been giving you trouble?"

Jennifer looked at Severus lying prostrate on the bed, bound and perfectly helpless. The Doctor brushed past her, disregarding her hesitation.

Briskly undoing one of the straps of the patient until he could just access Severus' wrist, the Doctor quickly inserted the needle and pressed his thumb on the plunger. Jennifer watched as the clear water-like fluid was pushed out of the chamber, and Severus gave a hideous scream. The poor man kicked and tried to move his arms, but to no avail—the Doctor had scooted out of reach in record time.

"You can't let him do this!" shrieked Severus, all color draining from his face, "You can't . . ."

His sentence ended in an unintelligible gibberish, a gibberish that did not even sound like Latin. Jennifer turned away, unable to hear her lover's ramblings and curses, unable to watch him suffer, unable to hold him in her arms.

"Just a bit of chloroform; that ought to settle him for a while" the Doctor decided, pulling the straps back over the patient so that his struggling was even more futile. "Come, Betty, I want you to come to my office for a moment."

She heard him, but her eyes had wandered to Severus again, and she could not tear them away again. His pupils were again dilated, and a look of supreme horror had swept across his face. He had turned back into his animalistic state again, he had become inhuman and terrible. All this, in sixty seconds after the injection.

At once—at once she understood.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid, Doctor?" she questioned tersely, in the same manner she imagined Severus would.

At this sanguine suggestion, Dr. Cromwell simply turned and stared at Jennifer. "What did you say?"

"I said: do you really think I'm that stupid?"

Her sudden confidence was raised, and she was able to look him straight in the eye, even though she was so tired, so hungry, and so much shorter than him. At this, the Doctor laughed uneasily.

"I don't know what you mean, Betty," he replied.

"I mean," she stated, "I know what you're doing. You lied—you're the one who has brought him to this. You've got some hallucinogen that you just put into him."

The Doctor made a show of astonishment, but the expression came to his face just a trifle too late. "Betty, that idea is outrageous. Why, I would lose my position for doing something like that."

"I think you are about to do so, actually." This stiff statement was interrupted by the desperate whimpering of her lover on the bed, and her heart ached to help him. Now she was on a crusade for his cause, however, and she was ready to fight. She sincerely wished she had been smarter—had done something before he had injected the poison into Severus for a second time—Good Lord, why had she not seen it before?

Severus was not the insane one—instead it was the Doctor!

"Betty, what are you saying?" exclaimed the Doctor, not really angry or upset, more surprised than anything else. "There's nothing harmful in what I gave him, just-"

"How do I know what you gave him?" Her voice rose significantly, and she realized she was losing her calm. _Good Lord, I _ought _to be losing my calm! _"How do I know what you gave him?" she shrieked louder. "How do I know anything with you?"

"My words, dear girl," replied the Doctor, appearing very taken aback indeed.

"Your word. Well!" she exclaimed. "Your words are nothing I can respect! Your words have insulted me for years—telling me I'm stupid, that I'm _subservient, _that I'm worth virtually nothing!"

"You misunderstand me, Betty," the Doctor faltered. "Yo mean everything to me—everything under God--"

"Oh, confound it!" she cried, angry. "I don't even believe you care about God!"

"Betty, how dare you insinuate--"

"My name isn't bloody Betty! It's JENNIFER!"

Her face flushed in anger—really quite exhilarating, actually—and she felt quite ready to slap Dr. Cromwell silly.

Dr. Cromwell looked as though she actually had done so.

"I . . . I never thought you would be like this B-Jennifer," he said quietly. " I thought . . . I thought I could control you better . . . so you wouldn't lash out at me . . . well, I can see I was wrong. This madman has poisoned your mind. I will be going, now. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Betty. I'll cry for you when I pass St. Peters and you remain outside of the fold." So saying, he walked out of the room, as though someone had whacked him over the head with an oak plank.

Jennifer then turned to Severus, who was mumbling something about Voldemort and Dumbledore dueling over his dead body. Almost going back into tears at seeing him so ill, she gently began to undo the bounds of the strait-jacket. She needed to get him out of there, take him away somewhere the Doctor could not get at him, so he could recover from the poison in his veins. She only hoped his body would be as quick at it as it had been before.

Then, from down the hall, she heard a piteous cry, though she paid it no attention for the time. She only remembered it later, when she heard that Dr. Cromwell had jumped from the topmost window of the institution, three floors above the ground. The coroner's verdict was suicide, but Mrs. Yitter was strangely silent when the police came. Jennifer almost believed that she had seen the old woman walking down the hall from that direction as she was struggling with dragging Severus to the institution ambulance, but decided not to say anything about it. She could not have rightly blamed the old lady.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Epilogue**

Severus awoke after two days of fighting the hallucinogen in his bloodstream, which they discovered was merely a concoction of belladonna and wild mushroom distilled for the purpose by Dr. Cromwell himself.

When he finally returned to complete reality, he discovered Jennifer leaning over him, tears streaking down her face.

"Jennifer, what's been going on? I had a dreadful nightmare that we had a falling out . . . though it seemed extraordinarily real at the time . . . and Merlin! My brain itself aches."

She could not help but smile. _Let him think it was a nightmare. I would prefer that he did. _

"You're my house, ducky," she whispered hoarsely, kissing his pallid blue lips. "You're home. I've been so scared for you, ducky . . . I'm sorry . . . I let him hurt you, and I really shouldn't have . . ."

Heavily, he raised his throbbing hand to brush a tear off her cheek. "Don't cry for me, Jennifer," he whispered in return. "Really—don't cry."

Of course, this as just the provocation she needed to burst into all-out sobbing. He said nothing, just ingraining his hand into her hair, refusing to let her move, pressing his nose into her neck in a manner that made her shiver despite herself.

Neither of them said anything; there was nothing new that they could say that generations of lovers had not already said, that generations of lovers would continue to say.

"What was it that made you change your mind about him?" Severus asked. He was not fooled by her slight misguidance—he knew that the 'nightmare' had happened, but was willing to forget its worst aspects once he knew the whys and wherefores.

"Oh, it was rather obvious—you were all right until he stuck that . . . thing . . . into you. Then you turned—well, you reminded me of your patronicus-spell-thing. You reminded me of a horse at bay; frantic, very vocal, and unwilling to give in."

He smiled a bit—not very much, but enough—and pressed his lips against her ear. "Lay next to me," he requested, "I want to hold you, but I fear I won't be able to properly in my present state."

She complied with a hidden yawn, not molesting the covers of the bed, just lying on top while he was underneath. This proved satisfactory for their current purposes. Gingerly, he extended his arms and wrapped them about her middle, burying his head into her bounteous bosoms.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself, Jennifer, and I am highly ashamed of you." His tone was light, but she could tell he was nonetheless worried. Without a word, she ran her hand through his hair, before decided on an answer.

"I haven't slept in a bed since you fell ill—and, even in a chair, barely at all. I couldn't until I knew you were safe."

"Hence your bloodshot eyes and drooping hair."

"Mhm." She was already falling asleep as she lay at his side. "Does you hurt much right now?"

"Not with you here."

Closing her eyes, Jennifer had to agree. Her heart had been in constant turmoil since she felt she had betrayed Severus, and having his forgiveness meant the world.

"By the way, I would like to say something," she suggested. "You remember what you tell me about lying?"

He paused, lifting his head so that he could look into her drooping eyes. "Yes?"

"You can lie to whomever you want, but never me, all right? I don't want the man I love to ever tell me something that he does not believe to be true."

"That is a valid point," he conceded. "And I swear I never will. But, you know, I never have," he aded staunchly, "Never needed to."

"That's good," she answered.

They did not have any more conversation that afternoon, Jennifer instead falling asleep almost immediately, and Severus staring at the ceiling lost in thought, never letting go of her once.

. . . x . . .X . . . x . . .

Because they were not soppy teenagers, as Severus said, they decided to get married very soon afterwards, once he had completely recovered. Jennifer invited Desmonda to the small nuptial gathering, and Severus wrote a letter to McGonagall requesting for her and Sylvia to also attend. Not that he really wanted to see either of them, but they had gone out after him in an attempt to find him, as unsuccessful as they had initially been. All three women came (Sylvia fortunately left her little brat Thomas at home with a French caregiver), and a lovely time was had by all.

After the wedding, McGonagall offered Severus a post at Hogwarts again, but once the man had access to his Gringott's account (and the large sum of money therein from his teaching and Dumbledore's monetary will) he decided to take Jennifer on a trip around the world. It was the best way to make up for taking care of him all those years when he _really_ needed nobody to take care of him, or so was his argument. Plus, he wanted to dredge up potion and culinary recipes from exotic regions. It was not by coincidence that they also stopped in New Zealand to visit Chelsea and her rich husband, either.

They spent six months traveling, at which point they decided they ought to settle somewhere and start earning some sort of living in the new millennium. So, on January 9, 2000 (Severus' birthday) they moved into a little comfortable cottage in the countryside near Bath, where Severus developed a mail-order potions company and attended to a vegetable and fruit garden. Jennifer, meanwhile, wrote romance novels—at first of the Jane Austen sort, but as her talents grew, of _those _kind that Jennifer claimed not to read—and ate her way through Severus' kitchen experiments.

Though Jennifer regretted it, she was too old to reproduce, so they never had any children—though that did not keep them from 'trying'. Truthfully, Severus said he would not have been capable of dealing with children, anyhow, so she never bothered him too much about it.

They associated both with Muggles and Wizarding people of the area, even though the former (who knew nothing of the service Snape rendered to the country) poked fun at them with the epigram of 'Jack Sprat and the Mrs. Sprat', though someone did later mention to Jennifer that the expression had originated from Severus himself. She little doubted it—he still jeered at her constant struggle against gaining weight, though his efforts were all contradicted while pressing his latest sweet concoctions upon her. Even more so when they were in bed together; he never gained a pound during their dual existence, and instead lost the majority of his visceral fat, so he found her voluptuousness 'more satisfying to ensconce (his) brittle bones than any comforter or sofa, to put it lightly'. It was more just an issue of being cold at night, Jennifer thought, but she did not mind; either way, he was not pressing her to change, and he loved for exactly the way she was. She admitted to the same.

_It was a peppermint existence_, Jennifer wrote in her later semi-auto-biography, _with all the easy banter of a married couple, yet with all the sweetness and romance of an unsettled one. _She was never a very good author, but Severus would read her work with more religious fervor than he showed anything else. Even though she knew he never declined from his steadfast atheistic views, she knew he was too much a martyr to not enter heaven. When she did eventually die, she did so with the light heart of one who knows that the one she loved most was going to be where she was going someday. That was satisfactory enough to her.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Thanks very much for being such excellent readers. I appreciate you all—every criticism and every comment of compliment! I now have expended this plot bunny, and feel quite satisfied about it. I probably will edit it someday, but not in the near future. Thanks very much to you all for reading! If you have not reviewed before, please, feel free—I reply to every signed review and every anonymous review with an email, and I love to hear from you. _

_Ultimately, merci for reading!_

_Alex_


	10. Afterward

**Afterward **(12/22/2008)

Before I begin, I must reiterate that I wrote this from purportedly Snape's perspective; I did not believe everything Snape said in the story, nor do I agree with everything he did.

Also, though this may be highly difficult to believe, as of last August I have been consistently attending church, and I am considering being baptised when I turn 18.

I attribute a lot of the stuff I wrote in this little nine-chapter story to teenage rebellion, but also as a part of the inner conflict I was having at the time I wrote it, some six months or so before I decided to formally accept God into my life again. If it makes any sense, I composed it as a way to resolve the internal doubts I was having about my 'settled' hatred of God; unfortunately, the story ended without myself having completely decided on the matter, as evidenced by the fact that I didn't kill off Betty. (Though I daresay I couldn't have done that, as I have grown uncommonly affectionate towards her, using her character in other things beyond the bounds of this fanfiction.) Anyhow, so I do keep this story as a testament to my development, but I do eschew a good deal of the impassioned stuff Snape says.

I also believe this story was a way of settling my internal hatred of communism, on which I have not recently made a radical 360 in my views lately, but I was somehow trying to connect religion with extreme socialism, which is easy only on the face of it. That's all I'm going to say on that matter.

I rather like Snape as an atheist, still, mainly because I see him as rather a teenager even as he approaches 40; he was forced to grow up too fast, I believe, and so although he may be highly mature in some respects, in others (ones more evident to those most intimate with him) he is very vulnerable and childlike. I see these as including a)religion, b)sex, c)ethics/morals, d)hatred of natal aspects--parents, country, etc. He's a (domestic and social) war baby, and always will be scarred by growing up in volatile circumstances. This is simply because he will probably never acknowledge the fact that he is scarred, as much as he berates himself for other aspects of his being.

Thanks to everyone who actually enjoyed this story and supported me while I wrote it; your kindness has helped me to personally grow and come to terms with my inner self.

Merci so much for reading, and I hope this conclusion helps to put everything in context.

Alex


End file.
